Nothin' Really Just Chillin'

(album: Soulful Distance - 2021)

I'm not in my right mind, and it's nighttime
Higher than a Georgia pine, but it's time to write rhymes
Shoot 'em through the pipeline to your partners in the public
Hoping that they love it, fuck it if it has no subject, but
Some act like Uncle Ruckus don't want niggas having nothing
Like the only thing we like is fighting, shooting, stabbing, cutting
No, I have no nine-to-five, but I rap and sing at least
Now I cop a box of chicken, used to get a wing apiece
"Do you want your cornbread?" Man, you better go on 'head
Aw, mane, anyone you can call? "Shit, my phone dead"
Tone said in '89, time to do the wild thing
I'll slang cow brain and serve it with chow mein
Cloudrains—I mean rainclouds over my head
What the fuck? Don't even know what I said
I'm just tripping, rapping, tipping, tapping, sipping, laughing
Let me get that, bae, what's happenin'?

What you doing, nigga? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling

Nothing really, something silly, groove to fill my album up
Smooth and witty, cool and chilly
Who that bitch that grabbed my nuts?
DJ, turn the music up, put a lil' more bass in it
Bandit got a hookah full of weed, I guess I'll take a hit
For the sake of it, I'll buy a whole bottle
Of Bud Light, and take a cold swallow
Go holla at my partners 'cause now everybody's got it
That loud, that fire, that heat, that gas, that exotic
The Rockets, Astros, Arrows and Comets
All in Houston, flying high, just like I'm is
High as fuck, time is up, three o'clock, club close
Nothing else popping but AKs, gauges and snub-nose
Rub toes with a gal later when we hit the sheets
Right after she break the weed down and I split the Sweet
Finally 'bout to get a piece, finna freak
Telephone rings, what the hell you want, mane?

What you doing, nigga? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling
What you doin'? Nothing really, just chilling

Just chilling