Man, don’t talk that ****--I ain’t but six-eleven, maybe,
But, pretend as he might, Reggie was seven-foot, legit,
And as bad a cat as ever took the court at Eastern High,
But bad off the court, too, took the neighborhood with him,
Wherever he went--man just couldn’t shake Mack Avenue,
And when the pros just decided
He wasn’t worth the trouble any more,
He had nowhere to go but back home, and nothin’ to work with
Save havin’ a big hand to pull a trigger with
(And that wasn’t getting him too far, like there wasn’t anyone
Who didn’t know who Reggie was),
And at some point you end up on the wrong end of the barrel,
Then nothin’ left to do
‘Cept try to wrestle what remained of the man
Into some huge-*** coffin
(Word was Mike Storen from the Pacers paid for it,
Even though Reggie had threatened to shoot his *** on live TV),
And word was when they got him to the graveyard
The coffin wouldn’t fit in the hole straight-in,
So they had to snap off a couple of the handles
And wedge him in all kitty-corner.
Man, I hope that story’s true,
Folks from the neighborhood used to say,
It wouldn’t be Reggie if he went straight.