Drizzy must have been having night terrors, complete with panic attacks in the middle of the night with sweat-drenched sheets you could use to calm a small house fire. He knew he catered to the ladies but this time he had gone to far. His unkempt appearance — unshaven whiskers, lazy sweats and Jewfro — was merely an excuse for him to live like a hermit. The guilt was swelling in his stomach and had made his way up to his throat. The pain was seeping in but in paled in comparison to the blow that had been dealt to his ego.
His appearance on “Aston Martin Music” was too soft.
The damage had been done and he knew it wasn’t entirely his fault. He had done his part and recorded a commendable verse, only to have it lost in the perils of the white label bins where only those who didn’t need a systematic process to give them music would find it. He had to do something. It was driving him past insane to the highways of lunacy.
The Canadian crooner phoned up Ricky Ross, pleading for a second shot at it. He cited collaborations with Bun B and offered up exclusive nudie cell phone pics of Princess RiRi as a bargaining chip. Unfazed, the Maybach Music lead pilot took calculated pulls of his premium blunt snack, as if he were pondering on some grand scheme to reintroduce a bit of hardcore into the equation. Almost instantly, his eyes light up, despite being weary and watered from the marijuana.
“I got it,” exclaims Ricky. “We can hit ’em with my “B.M.F./MC Hammer” flow. They’ll never see it coming! I’ll even take you to Vegas so we can spend some of theeeze millionzzz!” A downtrodden Drake agreed and felt himself growing stronger from the energy he saved in executing such an elementary flow. Not one to shortchange on the lyrics, though, he threw a couple extra barbs for the critics and consumers alike.
Meanwhile, Jayceon Taylor is somewhere scratching his red Mohawk, wondering why he gets so much flack for namedropping when clearly it’s the thing to do now.