If You Ain’t About Your Paper Poem | Ryan Ngala

If You Ain’t About Your Paper Poem

 

Edited, Recited, Typed & Written

By

Mr. Ryan Ngala & Ms. Wendy Ngala

Ryan Ngala’s Poems™ | STN® Poetry™

RyanNgalasPoemsOfficial.Blogspot.com | STNPoetryOfficial.Blogspot.com


Verse 1:



If you ain’t about your paper,

Then honestly,

They ain’t worth nothing to me,

These broke mother fuckers will be,

Begging us for a got damn quarter.



But they ain’t,

All about the dollars,

At least I find that sh*t,

So annoying sometimes.



One man once,

Came and approach to me,

He asked me for,

A spare quarter.



But what will that be,

All worth for and why?,

So then I told him, 

“You know what Na”.



At least he couldn’t used his,

Fucking common sense,

Just to pick up,

Five bottles and go make it,

His got damn self.



But instead he choose, 

To have someone else,

Like me to do his dirty work,

For him,

And I’m like,

What The Fuck?.



So I went about my business,

But these broke mother fuckers,

Who I can see in my very own eyes,

Approach and asked me for some of my own money,

At least I find them to be so got damn funny.



Will always be hollering, screaming and stressing out,

And for what?,

But I don’t want to draw any attention,

To none of these broke mother fuckers.



That I see outside on the streets,

Asking me for money,

When in reality they ain’t worth nothing or my time to me,

Why do these broke mother fuckers,

Want some of what I’ve have, huh!!!



I grind and hustle so hard for the paper,

That I make all the time,

But if you ain’t about your paper,

Then you broke jokers need to step aside,

No Lie. 



Verse 2:



If you ain’t about your paper,
Then don’t come to me,
With your hands,
Wide open begging me or us for a quarter.

Because we will be making,
Billions, Millions, Trillions Or Thousands of dollars a year,
While you broke mother fuckers yourself,
Don’t get nothing.

You ain’t even,
Worth nothing to me hoe,

Like Chris Breezy told me,
These hoes ain’t loyal to me.

At least the people who look broke,
Don’t even have the common sense,
To even make their own money,

By themselves,
By collecting bottles and cans.

But instead,
I’m making all of this bread,
By myself,
Without no one’s help.

But with someone to guide me,
It’s so funny to me,
That we don’t owe them,
Much of anything.


Copyright © 2008 – 2020 Ryan Ngala’s Poems™ | STN® Poetry™.  

All Rights Reserved.

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