Strictly For The Ballaz

By Boyce Watkins
Updated: May 16, 2007

NEW YORK — The balla on campus has now just arrived.

I’ll sign all your footballs for 9.95.

The cheerleaders and honeys all treat me real nice My coach says I’m great, I deserve all this ice.

My head may be bit swollen, like a big blimp.

But I deserve all these props cause I’m such a big pimp.

They even told me “don’t worry bout class” As they shake my hand softly and fill it with cash.

My hummer is blingin, with TVs in the back.

My 24s spinning, like my nickname was Shaq.

My diamonds are placed in my radio clock.

My system be boomin from way down the block.

The fellas get jealous as I roll through the spot.

Them fools always scheming to get what I got.

My girl is so tight, as she sits in my ride.

But she’s not as tight as my girls on the side.

My greatness rivals the angels above They treat me so special, this has got to be love!

About game number five, I jump for a pass And this 6-foot-5 brother knocks me right on my ass.

I leap from the tackle, “Man, you didn’t hurt me!”

But I fall back to the ground, with a crunch in my knee.

The doctor says to me as I swell up with tears “How much do you need your football career?”

Now that I can no longer jump for the ball.

The coach that once loved me ain’t returning my calls.

I once got the line “Your tuition is paid” I now get the line “Go try student aid.”

My girls on the side done got kind of rude.

They look at me funny, not stuttin me dude.

As I watch my gold hummer get towed down the street.

All I can do is stare at my feet

I then see the joke, and I was the butt.

The coach didn’t love me, I must have been nutts!

While they lined my pocket with a few hundred bucks.

Their dollars were delivered by flat bed trucks.

Did you ever take a second to think?

Why the coach’s wife shows up to games wearing mink?

While my mama is slaving as somebody’s cook.

Thinking her baby’s off hitting the books.

She goes Greyhound on game day, so her back is in pain.

The coach and his wife came by private plane.

One hit, then pow! I’m in a chair with steel wheels.

I bet the coach’s son will never know how that feels.

As the athletic department decides on my fate.

They then figure out that I am only dead weight.

No paper in hand, I’m shipped back to the hood.

I can’t pay for college, I’ll be home for good

I sit on the corner, as the summer heat steams.

I live in the bottle to wash away broken dreams.

Rather than getting calls from scouts, fans and coaches.

I’m in my mama’s crib, with mice, rats and roaches.

I once was defined by my strength and my speed.

But I now realize that wasn’t all that I need.

What would I change if I could press rewind?

I would work a lot harder to strengthen my mind.