Too Many Drivers The story of a Ho

[Intro — Spoken] They believed she was real. A woman worth mourning, worth following, worth framing in soft-filtered eulogies. But I remember the laughter. Yeah. I remember. ⸻ [Verse 1] They called her Gloria, painted halos on the frame, Soft-focus mourning while they sanctified her name. Selling empowerment, sharpening knives, Preaching womanhood while tearing down lives. Sixteen surgeries, still back in the shop, Fresh coat of paint every time something dropped. Tighter bolts, new parts, another disguise, Plastic prophet preaching beautiful lies. Wide-eyed followers bought every tale, Never checked the engine, never looked beneath the veil. Mother of seven, five fathers in the file, Then packaged the wreckage with a camera-ready smile. What a prize. Womanhood defined If womanhood means wreckage with good lighting designed. ⸻ [Pre-Chorus] Transmission slipping every man she knew, Spark plugs blown before the honeymoon was through. Engine overheated, oil leaking every mile— Everybody drove it for a little while. ⸻ [Hook / Chorus] Too many drivers. Too many miles. Too many owners in the title files. Engine light flashing, but she swore she was fine, Temporary plate reading INNOCENT every time. Too many drivers. Too many miles. Too many hands on the wheel over time. Call it what you want, put a halo on the hood— Five hundred thousand miles don’t make the engine good. ⸻ [Verse 2] She cried victim, forgot what came before, Forgot the bruises, forgot the war. Forgot the threats when the story got clean, Selective memory makes a beautiful screen. Then came the phone call— “Help me, I was mugged.” Money sent south while another man shrugged. While the lover spent the money she begged him to send, Another broken road, another crooked bend. Respectable lady? No. The odometer spoke. A fixer-upper wrapped in perfume and smoke. Dents in the doors, cracked chassis underneath, Still somebody believed what was hiding beneath. He fixed the fixer-upper. Turned every bolt. Tried giving shelter to a permanent fault. Despite every breakdown, every warning ignored, Despite knowing damn well it was never roadworthy before. ⸻ [Hook / Chorus] Too many drivers. Too many miles. Too many owners in the title files. Engine light flashing, but she swore she was fine, Temporary plate reading INNOCENT every time. Too many drivers. Too many miles. Too many hands on the wheel over time. Call it what you want, put a halo on the hood— Five hundred thousand miles don’t make the engine good. ⸻ [Bridge — Beat Drops / Spoken-Rap] But he tried to love her. Despite the dents. Despite the breakdowns. Despite every warning screaming DO NOT DRIVE. And she totaled him. ⸻ [Verse 3 — Final Escalation] She forgot what she said on the final night: “My lover is more man than you.” Yeah. Remember that line? “And he will kill you like a dog.” Funny how prophecy turns when you’re playing with fire, Three people trapped in a triangle of desire. Threat became pressure. Pressure became sound. One finger moved— then the trigger went down. No soft-filter ending. No glamorous lie. No empowerment slogan when somebody must die. Just jealousy, violence, rage and dread, And by the next day— all three were dead. ⸻ [Final Hook] Too many drivers. Too many miles. Too many owners in the title files. They polished the wreck and displayed it like gold, But pretty little stories don’t change what gets told. Too many drivers. Too many miles. Too many hands on the wheel over time. She wore INNOCENT like a plate on the back— Till the whole damn triangle went permanently black. ⸻ [Outro — Spoken] They believed she was real. I remember the laughter. I remember the knives. And some legends aren’t legends because they lived beautifully. Some become legends because nobody bothered to look under the hood.