You're a ghetto boy. You grow up in a one room tin shack with a leaking roof. Your brothers, five of them, all live with you and your poor mother struggles to put any food in all these bellies and clothes on your backs. You have no shoes and you sleep on the floor.
But your mother loves you she always tell you how good you can sing and how one day you're gonna be the biggest reggae star and drive a big car.
And that day comes, the producers love you, the public loves you and you cut a few records and ram a few dances and you're feeling very high.
Then the royalty cheques start to arrive and you realise you don't need to live in the one room shack no more. You buy a big house on the hill, with an annexe for your dear old mother to live out her last few days in comfort.
In the double garage you park your big car, just like your mamma said.
Then, when you go out everyone tries to pull you down. They don't want to see you succeed and they point to your car and shout "false rasta!".
Personally though, I think if you have big money then you should at least buy a hybrid and not some ridiculous gas guzzling pimp's ride.
