[Yes, yes. 
This is a topic that’s near and dear to my heart. 

I’m just try’n’a eat.]

[Hook]
I ain’t had dinner,
and I ain’t ate a thing all day.
Lord, forgive me…
Lord, forgive me…
the thing that I’m trying to say 
is I think I should eat alone.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

I can see you eyeing them, but get up off my tray, 
I got my drink, I got my food, and I would share them, but today I’m hungry,
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[1]
We just went through the drive-thru, and when I asked you if you want food,
you replied all politely and you denied it like it was cool. 

I can feel the hunger. 
I could have guessed that you would just assume I would prob’ly wanna
share with you, but how dare you to, because I am not yo’ momma,
and I ain’t here to feed ya.
I’m sorry, but 
you’re shit out of luck, 
and I ain’t trying to tease ya,

but a second ago when we was in the car
you should have said, before I got my straw,
“You know what? I’m hungry. I should get a burger.”
And said it loud enough so I could’ve heard ya.
I’d hate for my dinner to turn to a murder.
You can’t get a piece, and you can’t get a third of
my food, and it’s rude and it’s kind of absurd, I
wish you would have knew and just made you a purchase.

I can feel the hunger. 
I could have guessed that you would just assume I would prob’ly wanna
share with you, but how dare you to, because I am not yo’ momma,
and I ain’t here to feed ya.
I’m sorry, but 
you’re shit out of luck, 
and I ain’t trying to tease ya.

[Hook]
I ain’t had dinner,
and I ain’t ate a thing all day.
Lord, forgive me…
Lord, forgive me…
the thing that I’m trying to say 
is I think I should eat alone.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

I can see you eyeing them, but get up off my tray, 
I got my drink, I got my food, and I would share them, but today I’m hungry,
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[2]
I’m try’n’a keep myself calm 
and not just respond because I’m pissed off,
but fact is that shit is backwards; 
can’t warm it up, and you ain’t Kris Kross.

And I’m looking right past you.
You can get mad, but you can take that shit down to White Castle.

I know you got cash, and they make it fast, so it ain’t a hassle.
Get off yo’ ass and get you some food of your own to eat,
‘cause you ain’t getting none of mine [for real!]
You ain’t getting none of mine [for real!]

So spare me the pitiful look.
If you could cook you could make something that took
minimal time, but you can’t have none of mine.
I’m sorry, but no, not this time.
Burger King, Jack In The Box, Panda Wok—so many choices you got.

Get you a Happy Meal; ask for a box.
Get you a Happy Meal; ask for a box.

I can feel the hunger. 
I could have guessed that you would just assume I would prob’ly wanna
share with you, but how dare you to, because I am not yo’ momma,
and I ain’t here to feed ya.
I’m sorry, but 
you’re shit out of luck, 
and I ain’t trying to tease ya.

[Hook]
I ain’t had dinner,
and I ain’t ate a thing all day.
Lord, forgive me…
Lord, forgive me…
the thing that I’m trying to say 
is I think I should eat alone.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

I can see you eyeing them, but get up off my tray, 
I got my drink, I got my food, and I would share them, but today I’m hungry,
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[3]
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
I ain’t try’n’a front, though.
I would prob’ly share, but I ain’t even had no lunch, so
thinkin’ you can prob’ly get a nugget out my ten piece,
an onion ring, or my hush puppy might be tempting, 
but I ain’t try’n’a share my entrée or dessert with you.
That Dutch Apple Pie is all mine, so stop staring, boo.

Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

Walk out that door, get in the car and take that drive. 
My New Year’s resolution is to not make this confusing,
if we’re in the drive-thru, then order something that’s for you, 
I’m saying, 
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[I suppose…

now that you know better you can do better.

<Aha-ha>

It’s A. Dot…

That’s real talk….]

Bitch, Don't Steal My Fries

Intro [Yes, yes.

And so the journey begins.

You know how it feels, 
and I’m pretty sure you understand, too…

Yeah…

Ha!

Good looking out, Truth!

I finally made my move, 
and I figured I’d give you an update
on where I’m at right now.]

[MALCOLM X (as portrayed by Denzel Washington): 
“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]


[1]
They say History is written by the victors,
so when you see my picture
in the book it’ll be consistent with my memory, 
my victories, my tendencies that tempered me and wintered me.
Cold, like those Chi City winds, ‘cause they’re blistering.

It’s in my DNA.
It’s in my bloodline.
What I do is much deeper than a punchline.

Where I’m from crime
is the norm.
Bullets hail—we stay calm amidst the storm.

I say ‘we’ because
when I say ‘me’ it’s us.
When I say ‘you’ it’s me, too, and vice versa.
It’s not much that needs to be proven in nice verses.
Write cursive—scribble out—print it like I meant it.
My people *closed* minded—
wear it if you fit it.
Rarely niggas get it. If they did it would be critically acclaimed.

But still the same A. Dot.
Still focused on my vision at a rate they not.

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

[2]
So, I finally made my move to the South, and as I’m moving about
I get a better understanding what my roots is about,
because my people from here, and though I can’t see ‘em from here
they’re reflected in my expressions
so you’re hearing ‘em clear.

They ask me, “Why would you leave?”
I ask ‘em, “How could I stay
and be limited on the shit I have the power to say?”

I’m thinking years in the future.
They’re thinking now and today,
like getting showered with flowers, 
not in the aisle at your grave.

It’s hard to make it make sense.
My momma proud as can be, 
but says, “I thought you left before to get a college degree?”
And as I tell her, “I did, but I’m going back in the summer.”
it kind of makes me wonder what the fuck I’ll do with another.

It’s nothing more than a question—rhetorical one, at that.
I mean, the fact is all of this shit started off with a rap.
And if I’m still doing that
I think I’m doing okay.
If it ain’t complimentary, then you ain’t got shit to say [to me].

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

[3]
Because you read it in a book,
thought that it was true;
saw it on the television—thought that it was you.
Self-fulfilling politics get taught to you at school.
Brolic ‘cause you brought with it a positively rude
mind state. I keep mine like a blind date:

I can be objective, 
I can be accepting, 
but I’d rather be selective.
If I’m not respected I’m the wrong nigga to f’ with.
If you saw my checklist
you knew this was next. It’s 
not a matter of simply rapping.
I really happen to have a strategy being enacted.

If you know, you know I ain’t afraid of spittin’
what I know is true ‘cause I’m south of the Mason-Dixon.
If I know the Truth it’s my duty to make revisions;
showing my peoples’ beauty and skewing what They envision.

I make my living off the things that I think.
Therefore, I am. 
I’ll give that a minute to sink [in].

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

Dissertation [Part 1: The Introduction] Prod By Truth

"[1]
They want what’s similar to what’s been on the radio.
Say it’s no big deal, but if I’m for real, it is, but pay me no
credit, cash, debit, slash, let it pass, with no assist.
No resistance, know a listener can tell the difference.
I really wish I gave a fuck about what other people do. 
I really don’t, but want you to feel like I wrote this song for you. 

But it was writer’s block that prompted it, and me, who wanted it.
My promise is my narcissistic nature won’t be charmed by which-
ever one’s opinionated statements about how I made it.
I’m elated if you hate it. I’m complacent if you love it.
I put myself way above it—see it like an ant farm.
Can’t harm what you can’t touch. And I’ll give it up
before I let it be perverted, you heard it from me directly.
It’s silly if I ask you to, but I don’t respect me. 

Let me make myself real clear here—you niggas coonin’ and buffoonin’ 
and doing more damage to you than who you 
think is your enemy. Foolish, to think that men’ll see you
and then emulate your example. You see it clear like a sample. 
The opportunity’s ample, so you don’t put up a fight. 
Just sell what’s already there, ‘cause it’s your copy to write.
Rite of passage is the massive misinformation you faced and made believe 
you understood—that was the ace up your sleeve. 
So you sat down at the table to play. They made it look fun. 
You thought you had the high card, they told you you were the one.
And you were. 

Sometimes you play a game and win, but despite
your winning at it, somehow you find something missing in life.
Like for me? I’ll take the L before I take a few dollars
if I gotta endorse a product that I know to be harmful. 
Where’s the honor in a nigga being a nigga for sell?
May as well put on your heavy chain and work in the fields. 
How do you make a slave stay a slave? Tell him he can make a slave, 
and make some money while he’s at. It’s simple and tragic.

[2]
If Willie Lynch was just a myth but his invention still persisted
would it matter if we saw ourselves as chattel and we battled one another?
I was raised to hate my brother, so I hate him, 
and I hate the woman who created him. And maybe from
a certain angle,  if you strain to see the truth, then you could see
that what it really is I’m dealing with has more to do with me, 
but I’m afraid of truth, and hate that you remind me who I am, 
and that’s related to the way I grew up trying to understand
how I could make it through this place and do what I was meant to, and
face the fact that I was snatched from home and brought to tend the land.
‘Cause that’s the complicated kind of truth America the Beautiful
would hate to help me deal with, plus I feel it’s kind of mutually
beneficial if I’m killin’ niggas and she want ‘em dead
as much as she wants me to go away. A bounty’s on my head.

So they can ask for gun control and more restrictions, 
they can’t satiate the hunger that she has for hanging niggas.
I’m a proxy and a peon; a patsy taking orders; 
Apache scout attacking scalps and trying to save my borders;
a hoarder on a hunt for blood, I’m crippled by the thirst, 
so I’m riffin' over turf and bitches bitchin’ it gets worse
because my women wanna curse a cursed nigga. I am first 
A man who ain’t a man, but kind of mannish so it hurts
to think about it, be surrounded by it, even be convicted; 
to see it and believe it, talk about it and bear witness.
 
Fuck til death do us part, wellness or in sickness. 
I wanna see your thickness—twerk something—be my mistress, 
be my bitch. I’ll treat you like the bitch you is, and we’ll be living. 
Then we can have some children…and you could raise them brilliant…
or you could raise them feeling how I feel about us all…
the strangest kind of fruit to ever fall…

You could raise them how I feel about us all…
the strangest kind of fruit to ever fall."







Willie Revisited [Prod. by Preme]

Somebody in the crowd yells, 
“Impeach the DJ!” 
and almost on cue 
he places the needle tip down on the record
and the break-beat begins, 
“Ladies & Gentlemen…” 
immediately following a 
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

At that exact moment 
I know that we can have our own political party—
That we need 
our own political party.
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”

Right next to the DJ booth is the voting booth, 
so right after you vote 
you can request your favorite song…
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
but you have to be registered 
to vote, 
which means you have to be registered 
to make any other requests…

“Ladies & Gentlemen…”

And the dress code is ‘Sunday’s Best’
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
and after you request your favorite song, 
you can elect to not be enslaved by the legislation, 
which the DJ will read over the beat…
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…Please pay attention to the hook…
boom-bap…Please pay attention…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

Then, he slaps the crossfader, and says, 
“This is a paid advertisement from your sponsors…”
slap—boom-boom-boom—slap
“Hennessey Very Special Cognac & The Jordan Sneaker Company…”
slap—boom-boom-boom—slap
“You’re encouraged to vote with your wallets…”
slap—boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

And the people are in a trance, dancing, drinking and carrying on. 

The line at the DJ booth is bustlin’
because the hustlers want to hear Hustler Music,
and somebody wants You’re Only A Customer.
So the DJ says, “I do customized mix tapes for almost pennies a song.”
Then, Biggie’s Dead Wrong is mixed in, 
and just when you think it can’t get any liver
the crowd almost rises in unison, 
and I’m thinking dude can spin whatever record he wants and have them
moving to it, 
so I’m pretty sure he could lead our political party 
with slide dances 
and chants of “Do my ladies run this muthafucka?”

Now, “Do my fellas run this muthafucka?”

“I said the roof…the roof…the roof is on fire.  
We don’t need no water…”


And before last call, everybody who wants their voice heard 
has their song played, 
unless the DJ decides it would interrupt the mix, 
in which case you get a mix tape at a considerable discount…
and your song goes to the top of the list next time around…

“No guarantees,” 
the DJ says as the lights come up, 
“We don’t want to ruin a good time.”

And the people leave, satisfied. 

And the DJ goes to the back room to collect his check. 

The club owner smiles, 
tosses him cash, and they have a good laugh

about Politics As Usual.

Impeach The President

"A dot—no comparison. 
Rap Thomas Edison. Arrogant. 
God son flow. Rhymes heaven sent.
Braggadocio, while they Pinocchio when flowing over instrumentals.
If I said it, best believe I meant it, 
‘cause my sentences be ventilation statements. 
Press breaking. Half baked. No smoker; still eating; have cake. 
Cream rises—
I am where I am—no surprises. 
Dream shake like Hakeem—stay posted—no denying I’m defiant. 
Miami Vice; Sonny squealing tires. 
Weight’s up—I’m the Jolly Green Giant with the science.

They feebler than the Keebler’s, hide in trees—so sweet. 
Want beef like vegans, so we simply won’t meet. 
Can’t speak. We don’t even eat off the same dishes. 
They dying for some fame. We don’t have the same wishes. 
Don’t do the same business. 
Go live—pour up.
You sell a bit; I’m celibate—I gives no fucks. 
Sell none, either. Hail one Teacher. 
Fail? Won’t ever. Tales so clever. 

Author like Chaucer, be the saucer in the sky, 
that they swear they saw flying with the lights whizzing by. 

Gemini [Jim and I]—put it on the Finn like Huck—
for my Niggas who would get it, either spill or throw it up. 

No colors. No gang ties. Just words. 
I was speaking on the stars, and the moon just occurred. 

Pit-bull, 
spit full clips, bullshit? No never. 
Ill state, still. Go getter.
Chill, no sweater—they better button up. 
I’m in a button down, bow tie, summing up,
like, “In conclusion, 
no confusing, me for you or you. 
I’m not doing 
what you cats call ‘rap,’ I call trash. 
And what y’all fans call ‘hot’ I call ‘gas.’

Can’t fuck with A dot. I must brag.
If you’ve been schooled, this’ not the same class. 
If you’ve not read, it’s still the same book, 
but not the same page, and not the same look. 

Dot’s the same guy that told you ‘don’t speak’
then gave you no doubts your flow was on E. 

I’m gone teach—I’m telling you, ‘hands down.’
Grand Prize Game was played by those clowns.

The Bozo Show, that’s sold on hope—
could have a needle in they vein and still won’t know dope.

Introducing—back from never leaving—
the critically acclaimed, recognized, never even.

Fire breathing, Midwest beast in
5’6” frame, plus flame still leaking. 
Still plain speaking. Raps woo ladies. 
Nine deep. Tang like booze. Euphrates…
In denial is where I leave all my rivals. 
Prey like a predator, while they praying for their survival...

Find a Bible."

Instrumental: "One," by Ghostface Killah [Supreme Clientele]"

One [Produced by JuJu]

"[1: A.D. Carson]
It’s the anti—everything that you believe you stand for.
Cancer that a man stores in his hands for
laying ‘em on parishioners wishing for some malignance.
I’m really just saying what I’m writing is sickening. 
What I’m writing is vision. 
What I’m writing is healing.
What I’m writing is flashes of lightning across the ceiling.
Flames from the floor, flickering, licking your feet to move you, 
fool you into believing that when you move, it’s the true you.
Voodoo dance from dude whose hands expand reality. 
Puppeteering, but from what you’re hearing, you do it naturally. 
And actually I’m to blame for it all—
I’m the reason, even your breathing—if you rise or you fall.
They said Hip-Hop’s dead. I said it must be a joke, 
‘cause if it’s really the truth that means I fuck with the ghost.
And I ain’t—above believing in what people don’t see, 
but I can’t—believe in it if don’t believe in me, 
so where are you? 

[2: Bad Dreams]
It’s that long night sleep tight now that you think you woke up 
Soaking in your psychosis I’m dosing you with the donuts  
You wading into them rivers just wishing for this deliverance  
You floating in them oceans and just hoping for your atonement
Cooking up something frozen
Cooling off the commotion
What I quote is drums invoking tongues of the chosen 
Black Rhapsodies Rap tapestries get woven 
Bodies contorted jerking the circle is never broken 
Like the slave embracing godliness, embrace the bodiless
Authorship beyond consciousness that’s where the party is 
Burn Down the plantation regardless
The ghosts told me never the fear the darkness 
that’s where the realest part is
They said the blues is dead I said it must be a joke 
Amiri Baraka handed me some smoke and I just took a toke 
And I ain’t above believing in what people don’t see 
I believe in ya’ll even when ya’ll don’t believe me 
So who are you? 


[3: A.D. Carson]
God bless the child that can hold it in. 
Believe…enemies bleed when I hold my pen. 
Let these words be the first to my unborn seeds
so they hear the voice of God clear—blast for me, 
blast for your you, and those who come after you.
Keep your peace, until they make you have to use it—
have to lose it—clear choice: after music 
comes the fall. So, really, what I’m doing’s for y’all. 
But you’ll never know the truth, never see it for self,
never believe ‘cause you can’t understand it, or else
have it chewed and spewed back at you, pick it up and endorse it,
then you’ll support it, get it to fit. If it don’t, then you’ll force it. 
They say my people are dead. I said it must be a joke, 
‘cause if that’s really the truth that means I’m talking to ghosts.
And I ain’t—above believing in what people don’t see, 
but I can’t—believe in it if don’t believe in me, 
so what are you?" 



Talking To Ghosts feat. Bad Dreams [Prod. by Preme]

Son Shines [featuring C - Style]

"People ask me why I say the shit I say in front of white folks,
as if the things I say should just remain with me and my folks,
but why folks
be thinking my communication’s harsh

when sentences they say have niggas locked behind them bars,

and stories they be telling and be publishing in books
will turn around and make fucking saint out of a crook.

And faces that I look at doing crime ain’t just like mine
but you won’t get that picture if you stay inside the lines
and so I stay inside a mind dividing time on either side of truth and lies
because we’re meant to scrutinize. Who decides who we get euthanized by?
Not shootings, drive bys,
or “black-on-black crime,”
I’m wondering ‘bout them white lies
that they be telling you and I ‘bout you and I in U-N-I-
versities so verses be the the truest kind. I’m looking for congruent minds to match my wits with.
When truth get hard, they nitpick.
But I ain’t trying to argue with no nitwit.

[Hook]
So you can go tell ‘em I said it. I meant it. I’ll tell ‘em myself if they willing to hear it.

[I ain't running away from my words
just make sure I said what you heard.]

You can go tell ‘em I said it. I meant it. I’ll tell ‘em myself if they willing to hear it.

[I don't care it you're feeling disturbed
or that you feel it's absurd.]

You can go tell ‘em I said it. I meant it. I’ll tell ‘em myself if they willing to hear it.

[If my word is my bond
I gotta be certain that I'm
observant and working with mine.]

You can go tell ‘em I said it.
I meant it.
I’ll tell ‘em myself.

[2]
I don’t need another February. Seldom, very rarely, next to never
should you put the education ‘bout your greatness on oppressors.

So what he has to teach you
comes more from how he treats you.
And not just when he need you or your people.
I peep bull.
It’s all beef.
And I don’t have no cares ‘bout what they call me.
I’m all me.
And for that, I’m not sorry.
So hard we work to hardly herd the heart that hurts the hardly heard,
and we’re disturbed
by how often that pot is stirred.
So when they turn and say it’s race bait when I’m calling out race hate
I keep on talking. I ain’t trying to placate
or waste space trying to debate the hate haters create with its creator.
I make haste. Lying ain’t got no place in my relations.
So statements ain’t offending me,
nor is your opinion of me,
it’s more or less the the moral-less supremacy.
Since people have them tendencies from coming through this system we call living
I guess they think that shit should be forgiven. It ain’t.

[Hook]

[3]
I don’t want you to do me no favors.
I don’t want you to do me no solids.
I don’t want you to teach me your hatred.
I don’t want to be ruled by your scholars.
I don’t want to be seen as your problem.
My problem is what you created,
then you framed it as if it was me,

insisted that you should debate it.

I take it as kind of a compliment
that I often get the blame for the shit that I cannot control.
But if we discuss it, it’s really insulting.
I come from the people whose land that you stole,
bodies you took. And I can’t trust a guy who’s a crook
with a view that denies me a look,
and then puts it inside of a book that they teach me to read, if they do,
it’s to treat me like I should be shook.

And that's only the half.
I'll travel the loneliest path
doing felonious math,
erroneous, maybe, but these are the stakes: the baloney you gave me

is created from wrongs that have made me
the man that you hate, see?

But it ain't me...
so it can't be.

That American Dream seems like hell of a scheme.

And it’s deep…’cause in order to dream, then you gotta be sleep.

And what am I, but a guy interrupting the lullaby?
And if that don’t work. So what, I try.

[Hook]

[Outro]
E. Dunlap: Y’all remember that story about Issey?
Old Sawney’s daughter?

You know, they say she tried to burn down the plantation house.

Shit...

I wish she had’ve done that shit.

And you can tell ‘em I said it...

‘cause I did."

Talking To White Folks [I Said It] [Produced By Preme]

"[Hook]: 
You can call ‘em best in the West or the best in the league. 
Best of the best or the best that we see. 

Those are big shoes to fill ‘til we see
who’s the real MVP. 

They was tested together, but they’re better on their own. 
Let’s see who is inheriting the throne. 

[Verse]:
Now that it’s head to head we can call it because it’s started. 
Dearly departed, this here’s not for the faint of heart. 
But instead, it’s a question, one you can ponder, and even wonder. 
Search the sky for the gods, only one of ‘em brings the Thunder. 

One of ‘em came to Rocket, and truly ought to be feared. Not just for the beard. 
This guy’s truly out of this sphere. 
But not for nothing, with Russ in the discussion, then we talking ‘bout 
the league leading scorer taking everything and walking out. 

Few words from the curious crowd.
If not a Trey, he’ll stop, pop, like Furious Styles.
They leave audiences screaming more mo’, boy.
It’s like Harden be serving ‘em from the do’, boy. 
Giving out dishes, then torching and burn they home.
Medusa to the shooter. They look and they turn to stone.

They out to win, and really won’t get it subtle. 
And that’s how you explain the fifty point triple doubles. 

[Hook]: 
You can call ‘em best in the West or the best in the league. 
Best of the best or the best that we see. 

Those are big shoes to fill ‘til we see
who’s the real MVP. 

They was tested together, but they’re better on their own. 
Let’s see who is inheriting the throne. 

Those are big shoes to fill. Will we see
who’s the real MVP?"

Bleacher Report: "The Real MVP" [Produced by Preme]

I DON'T OWN THE RIGHTS TO ANY OF THIS MUSIC!
If you can name every song in this mix we can be friends lol!
Once I hit 10k listens, I'll drop a 2006-2008 classic throwbacks mix. Share this with errrrrbody you know: ya mama, ya daddy, ya friends, ya baby daddy, ya baby moms, hell even the baby if you want. As long as you don't forget to dance!

2003 - 2005 Throwbacks Vol. 1 - DJ Shalé

I DON'T OWN THE RIGHTS TO ANY OF THIS MUSIC!
If you can name every song in this mix we can be friends lol!
Once I hit 10k listens, I'll drop a new classic throwbacks mix. Share this with errrrrbody you know: ya mama, ya daddy, ya friends, ya baby daddy, ya baby moms, hell even the baby if you want. As long as you don't forget to dance!

New Jack Swing Mix - DJ Shalé

Michael Jackson vs. Prince! 
WHO YA GOT IN THIS ICON SHOW DOWN!
Purchase this mix here: https://jayshale.com/store/michael-jackson-vs-prince-mix-from-soundcloud-dj-shal
Purchase a MJ ONLY mix here: https://jayshale.com/store/ultimate-michael-jackson-mix-dj-shal
Purchase a PRINCE ONLY mix here: https://jayshale.com/store/ultimate-prince-mix-dj-shal

MJ vs Prince #IconSeries - DJ Shalé

here's a teaser of the full mix!
purchase it here!
https://jayshale.com/store/mjmix

Ultimate Michael Jackson Mix SNIPPET - DJ Shalé

here's a snippet of the full mix!
get it here: https://jayshale.com/store/prince

Ultimate Prince Mix SNIPPET - DJ Shalé

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!
Thought I'd share some of my favorite baby-making jams with y'all today lol if you're not shy, play this for your bae tonight! ;)
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I don't own the rights to any of these songs

stu

Stewart Carson Jr.