I lace my Timbs, count my own ends—
ain’t no “baby, can I hold somethin’?” in my lens.
401(k) growin’ while I’m twerkin’ on the floor,
stock splits sweeter than the brotha tryna holla “more.”
Bills? Paid. Roof? Mine.
Name on the deed, nigga—permanent shine.
He say “ride me,” I say “ride solo,”
full tank, GPS set to power, not sorrow.
Call me queen, call me Ms. Rowland’s legacy,
independent since the womb, womb, womb—