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Jas Mace |
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I thought a man's supposed to have a heart of his own |
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But every time she snaps her fingers you come running home |
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What happened to your vertebra I heard a story yesterday |
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They said you're wearing matching clothes and looking real gay |
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Identity theft my man what's next |
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And you ain't even getting sex a rest haven until the last breath |
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She wears the pants and leads the dance |
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It's time to cut the strings you're buying her rings |
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And you ain't even got enough to pay the rent |
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All man, she holds your money like a rubber band |
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If it was love I'd understand |
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But she's using you man I guess you can't see the plan |
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She's trying to get rich and not do shit |
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But manipulate and by the time you realize it's gonna be too late |
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She gives commands and you sitting there doing it |
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I guess you're just a puppet, and she's the ventriloquist |
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Hook |
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His a puppet, in private and public |
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Swinging on a string it ain't thing because he love it |
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His a puppet and don't think nothing of it |
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Swinging on a string controlled by what's above it |
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Marchitect & Jas Mace |
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You started in the basement grinding it out |
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Spent all your time writing rhymes and never came out the house |
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Dreamed of big things cars and big rings |
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Planes with big wings gonna party no doubt |
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You was real and had the love of the streets |
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But the streets wasn't enough they made you change your beats |
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Change your clothes change your rhymes |
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Now it's too late to even change your mind |
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They got you throwing gang signs like you're straight out the hood |
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Had it cracking for a week and now you're played out for good |
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Singing on all your cuts now you're doing romances |
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Flaunting money, looking funny doing dances |
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And that would be cool if it came from your heart |
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But you're scrambling like a sucker rearranging your art |
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You started off right there was a time when they was loving it |
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Can't make your own words can't make your own moves |
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Hook |
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You're a puppet, in private and public |
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Swinging on a string it ain't thing because you love it |
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You're a puppet and don't think nothing of it |
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Swinging on a string controlled by what's above it |
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Marchitect |
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Rich boy from Texas tried to run the place |
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Knowing that he wasn't even from the place |
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New England bred, silver spoon fed |
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Don't want to do the work he wants to party instead |
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He want to be like pops with real life props |
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Nice crib, nice digs, oil rigs, and white yachts |
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When in the right spot, he soon found out |
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That black gold buys elections down south |
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It ain't sweet in the catbird seat |
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When the puppeteer steers every word you speak |
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And when you finally got in the house |
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Enemies popping up like they were Oscar the Grouch |
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You went too far to turn back |
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A title of a fool and you rightfully earned that |
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But I can't get mad at the kat |
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It ain't him, it's probably all them hands in his back |
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Hook |
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You're a puppet, in private and public |
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Swinging on a string it ain't thing because you love it |
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You're a puppet and don't think nothing of it |
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Swinging on a string controlled by what's above it |
