Lyrics

Yo, where the other one at? I like this one Just let it go, Preem Z06 'Vette, grippin', feelin' almost there Listenin' to Bon Jovi, rollin' "Livin' on a Prayer" Privy to the gossip that's been said about me constant It's the life and times of "Bumpy" Johnson meets "Nucky" Thompson I used to rap about death, now I'm only concerned to live I value relationships, still I keep it competitive Nowadays, chances are that if you see me throw the match It ain't to lose the fight, it's to walk away from a burnin' bridge I'm from a family of alcoholics and coke addicts Daddy taught me if the ass is so fat It's a fact that if you with your ho, don't matter It's still appropriate to scope at it Livin' life with no balance Drivin' drunk on co-pilot, drivin' 'til I total it I'm tryna stay afloat, but I got nobody to throw a rope at it The game is just a game of splits and politics wit' no ballot All kind of clips with mo' malice than pushin' If you profilin', there'll probably be more violence than lookin' I'm so stylish, but I ain't talkin' eBay, no high-end fashion either If you catch me by the runway, it's the one that's for the PJ This one is for my lyricists, courtesy of my DJ (I can't control it, can't hold it, it's so nuts) (Hustle hard in any hustle that you pick) (I, I, I respect that) I done had a lot of niggas say they wanna hurt me Somehow, some way they just end up at my mercy Just show some courtesy (Hell yeah, nigga, you know, and niggas still got it) (Believe that shit) I got killers 'round the way, ready to move that work for me Niggas wanna ride my wave, bitches wanna surfboard me All I want is courtesy, who cares 'bout the radio? And you could take the cassette deck from off of your old boombox And it wouldn't matter, there's still squares on your radio To keep your wealth, I learned to stay to yo'self I call for Charl, tell him spray paint a mural in Watts Of me spray-paintin' a mural of Miracle Watts Shout-out to Michael "5000" Watts I'm on that lean movement like I'm out here tryna box Look, nigga, this is a boss thing, uh Meanin' you gettin' the laze' dot to your offspring I'm a lost bein', uh Try to cross me without fallin' off, I'm afraid not I'm a frayed knot like a draw string I'm preachin' to the congregation like I'm Peter Popoff If you can imagine me hopping up out of the cabin Like I'm one of the dukes of Hazzard like, "Fuck it" Leave the top off like time for foreplay That last line that was before your time Like Big Ben sittin' in Beyoncé doorway While I'm receivin' Four Seasons, Norwegian top in Norway Listenin' to rappers kick knowledge That they probably got from Touré These Michael Eric Dyson niggas claiming they king Not knowing the kind of drama that that bring I'ma be the first established rapper to hop in that battle rap ring Turn that to Gatlin' My next album gon' be so dark and so fly I should see the package, it wrapped in batwings These Soul Train Music Award actors rock fake as wrestlin' Dressed bottom to top in leather lookin' like bacon in Vaseline How you looking like beef jerky? Beefin' in every verse, but never beefin' in person? Randy Savage, you wouldn't snap a Slim Jim You wouldn't rip a wrappin' on Christmas in Santa's attic Wit' the hands of Eddie Scissors and you average Put your motherfuckin' hands up My job is to move the crowd, move the motherfuckin' crowd Put your motherfuckin' hands up I respect that PRhyme
Writer(s): Ryan Montgomery, Christopher Martin, Adrian Younge Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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