“Doc, this is Bri, my niece. She ’bout to murder this beat you got for her.” “Hold up, you made that for this li’l girl?” some guy on the couch asks. “What she gon’ do, spit some nursery rhymes?” There go the smirks and snickers. This is that stale and predictable shit Aunt Pooh warned me about when I first told her I wanted to be a rapper.
