Unc Dre

Ey yo, it’s Dre from the PJ’s, 38, dreads swingin’ like caution tape, neck tats spellin’ “No Snitchin” in gothic. Rockin’ a stained white tee, Amiri jeans saggin’ off my ass, Glock print showin’ like a badge. Gold slugs flash every time I lick my blunt shut. Voice raspy from Newport 100s: “Shawty, why you playin’? I just hit yo Cash App, quit trippin’.”
Ten baby mamas, eleven kids, still slide in your DMs at 3:12 a.m. with the purple devil emoji, “Pull up, door unlocked.” I park the busted Charger on the curb, hazards blinkin’, engine runnin’ while I count blues on your couch. Child support? EBT card thicker than my strap.
Every “I love you” come with a side-eye and a “Don’t post me, opps lurkin’.” I bring you Popeyes spicy, then blow your phone up 73 times if you leave me on read.
Block me? I make a new IG from my cousin’s phone in 4 minutes flat.
You mine till the next chick hit my line with rent money. Keep it trill or catch me outside, for real. Now delete this, lil’ mama. One.