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The Late Great NOTORIOUS, from the 1997 album Life After Death.
Photo of Vashtie in New York Knicks Spiziked Jordans by Vashtie Kola.
Lyrics include Mature content.

Who y’all talking to man?
Check it out, check it out
This here goes out
to all the n—as that be f–king mad b—hes
in other n—as cribs
thinkin s–t is sweet
N—a creep up on your ass, hahaha
Live n—as respect it, check it

I kick flows for ya, kick down doors for ya
Even left all my motherf–king hoes for ya
N—as think Frankie p—y whipped, n—a picture that
With a Kodak, Insta-ma-tak
We don’t get down like that, lay my game down quite flat
Where you parked at?
But that ass fat
She got a body make a n—a wanna eat that, I’m f—kin’ with you
The b—h official though, d–k harder than a missile yo
Try to hit if she trippin disappearing like Arsenio
Yo, the b—h push a double-oh
with the five in front, probably a conniving stunt
Y’all drive in front, I’m a peel with her
Find a deal with her, she f–k around and steal, huh?
Then we all get laced

Television’s, Versace heaven, when I’m up in ‘em
The s–t she kicked, all the s–t’s legit
She get d–k from a player off the New York Knicks
N—a tricked ridiculous, the s–t was plush
She’s stressing me to f–k, like she was in a rush
We f–ked in his bed, quite dangerous
I’m in his ass while he playing against the Utah Jazz
My 112, CD blast, I was past
She came twice I came last, roll the grass
She giggle, sayin’ I don’t smoke on homegrown
Then I heard a moan, “Honey I’m home,”
Yep, tote chrome for situations like this,
I’m up in his broad I know he won’t like this,
Now I’m like b—h you better talk to him,
Before this fist put a spark to him,
F–k around s–t get dark to him, put a part through him,
Lose a major part to him, arm, leg,
She beggin me to stop but this cat gettin closer,
Gettin hot like a toaster, I cocks the toast, uhh,
Before my eyes could blink,
She screams out, “Honey bring me up somethin to drink!”
He go back downstairs more time to think,
Her brain racing, she’s telling me to stay patient,
She don’t know I’m, cool as a fan,
Gat in hand, I don’t wanna blast her man,
But I can and I will though, I probably chill though,
Even though situation lookin kinda ill yo,
It came to me like a song I wrote,
Told the b—h gimme your scarf, pillowcase and rope,
Got dressed quick, tied the scarf around my face,
Roped the b—h up, gagged her mouth with the pillowcase,
Play the cut, n—a coming off some love potion s—t,
Flash the heat on em, he stood emotionless,
Dropped the glass screaming, “Don’t blast here’s the stash,
A hundred cash just don’t shoot my ass, please!”
N—a pulling mad G’s out the floor,
Put stacks in a Prater knapsack, hit the door,
Grab the keys to the five, call my n—as on the cell,
Bring some weed I got a story to tell, uhh…

Yo man, y’all n—as ain’t gonna believe what the f–k happened to me.
Remember that b—h I left the club with man? Yo, freaky yo. I’m up in
this b—h player this b—h f–king run them old Knick ass n—as and s–t,
I’m up in the spot though. One of them six-five n—as, I don’t know.
Anyway I’m up in the motherf–king spot, so boom I’m up in the p—y,
whatever whatever. I sparks up some lye, Pop Duke creeps up in on some,
must have been rained out or something *laughing* because he’s in the
spot. Had me scared, had me scared, I was shook Daddy – but I forget I
had my Roscoe on me. Always. You know how we do. So anyway the n—a
comes up the stairs, he creeping up the steps, the b—h all shook she
sends the n—a back downstairs to get some drinks and s–t. She gettin
mad nervous, I said f–k that man! I’m the n—a, you know how we do it
n—a, ransom note style put the scarf around my motherf–king face,
gagged that b—h up, played the kizzack. Soon this n—a comes up in
the spot, flash the Desert in his face he drops the glass. Looked like
the n—a pissed on his-self or somethin, word to mother! Ahh f–k it
this n—a runs dead to the floor, peels up the carpet, start giving me
mad papers, mad papers. (I told you that b—h was a shiesty b—h cuzz!
Word to mother I used to f–k her cousin but you ain’t know that! Hahaha.
You wouldn’t know that s–t. Really though.) I threw all that
motherf–king money up in the Prater knapsack. Two words, I’m gone!
(No doubt, no doubt… no doubt!) Yo n—a got some lye, y’all got
some lye? [conversation fades out]

The manuscript Blue Lines is the fictional coming of age narrative of a young California woman Key Yemaya Walker, and her 2 year growing journey through school, love, and life period piece, written by Kenneth Suffern, Jr., taking place at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill between the years of 1997 – 1998. Loosely based on true events, and experiences during that time, told through the eyes and voice of the main female protagonist, a freshman first attending the school.