Sunday's Best - Black Milk

Ayo, rise in the AM

early morning laying, I just wanna stay in

I just wanna lay in

pops like «get your ass up, stop the faking»

«We already late, and .»

Sunday morning waking, faking like my stomach’s aching

Moms pull out clothes just for Sunday’s best occasion

Bowtie, no lie, church shoes was aching

80-degree weather in a blazer, body blazing

Already can’t wait until this day end

Just a little nigga that would rather be home video-gaming

Now we on our way in — deacon speaking

Preacher preaching to that congregation, mason

(mason… mason)

Minds wandering off, not hearing that man of the cloth

Talk about that man on the cross

Now we back to praying

Old ladies with church fans screaming out «amen»

Looking at that painting on the stained glass

Watching while that collection plate pass

Tithes, offering, to me it’s all the same cash

Fast forward, got older

a younging that’s gone bad

Let me rephrase that, a younging that went down that wrong path

No matter how religious moms or pops was

Still had encounters with the cops

(I was young)

Product of that environment I was in

Once I left that front door, I could have been out of here

Bullets flying is the norm, so most kids walk without a fear

Friends dying is the norm, so they walk without a tear

Rather tat it on their face — to who’s?

Wait

While the old head is yellin' «it's never too late»

Too late, too late, too late, too late

Too late, too late, too late, too late

Too late, too late, too late, too late

Too late, too late, too late, too late

Too late, too late, too late, too late

Too late, too late, too late, too late