Credits
Lyrics
Yo, that's why these gods out the sky like flies
And roll deeper than graves upon my USS Enterprise
I'm on the corner of the map, these legends will never die
Treat Los Angeles like international waters
Call me baby mama 'cause I birthed your style
So where's the alimony? I hope that's what you're about to show me
Me with my light bulbs and you with your coconut
Staying open across the dome and soaking the blood
Yo, the ox stone chop limbs, top spending network
Guillotine knock off heads, make your chest hurt
Test the squirt gun, get wet like spilt milk
Don't cry, this the real deal, my eye in alignment
Your face on the triangle, jungle
The squad put mobs in rectangles, they wrap with Bojangles
Black face, stack cake for the catalog
You shit on the grass in the shack pushing cattle cross
Black mask, pull up the pig, look out
Shots through the lookout, Glocks roll, flocks south
Wild hundreds to Canal Street, hunting
Goodwills, L.A., hood mills, liquor stores
All we want is guns and drugs, yeah
All they want is guns and drugs, ayy
Feel more green
I'm tryna feel more green
Close your eyes and envision, we coincide with the rhythm
Despised by a critic, immortalized by the listener
Deprived, they diminished, couldn't survive in a system
Where real wise men flourish and fools die there tripping
Newport shorts, smoking the city breeze
I never hit Four Loko or shitty trees
The mic feel like a knife steel, gritty steez
Catch a slight chill tryna ice grill, Mr. Freeze
A nice feel like a nice pill, drift with ease
The finest piff to accompany the epiphanies
A little jerk copped the purp on his payday
Take a hit, let the piff surf on his brain wave
I rhyme with divine enchantment, cyborg mind enhancement
Pandemic-sized disaster
I shake up your faith, please revive your pastor
The dynamite light beaming, blind the task force
Blah, blah
You not a cat, you a mouse, you a bird in the house
Get your seat wet, smoking shipwreck in your home
Call the hoes, go for broke, coast in the now
Spin your whole pig pals 'round the rose stick pile
Lift the eye, now the whole thing high brow
Till it run out of gas
It's ha ha all the way to the class
Make a quick stop at the ATM
Make a bitch drop out of first class
Hop out that plane, we make that vertical dash
It's like our competition's learning to crash
I'll make a meal and then I'm burning the cash
It's all about sending message
There's not a whole lot of us left that's going back to the essence
Three kings, golden incense, fuck the peasants, fuck your presence
Call me the indefinite crux, these songs are horcruxes
Brains on crutches
I clutch the mic, enticing these ears like Dick Butkus
Rip 'em to shreds with horse heads in the Benz
Optimism is the definition of mislead
You won't believe my meters run this red
It's J-Liv philosophy
The Stones Throw shit is a part of me to the point of ungodly
But I've been the god since junior high
Pinching asses and bumping that Young Gotti
Flows molasses, cut and crop like tractors
Write my fucking squad's name at the top of that bracket
Black Russian, turning these other crews Prussian
Crush 'em, my boys'll turn something into nothing
Black Russian, turning other crews Prussian
Crush 'em, my boys'll turn something into nothing
Written by: Jonathan Wayne
