[Chorus:] Thirteen motherfucking years! I know what to do to knock your stupid ass So bad you ain't no challenge. Thirteen motherfucking years! This ain't no fluke this pure deep talent. Thirteen motherfucking years! I know what to do to knock your stupid ass So bad you ain't no challenge. Thirteen motherfucking years! Bow when I hold the microphone and hold it Keeping me rapping until I hoarse and swollen Thirteen years and rolling I rate colder than coldest Getting part of this, niggas don't want no more of this Never leave you alone in your life, nigga I'm selecting and selling rhymes Slap a nigga that style sound some like mine Mad enough you screaming "It AIN'T!" (This line whispered, can't hear) You be pissing me off some the time, take you down one at a time I'm be known for fucking over your whole album Who want my rhyme? Keep declining, I'm keep climbing Keep ducking, I'm keep bucking Keeping heat seeking rhymes coming to get you bitches off me Disrespectors cow sled, (..?..) Hard to break, if it comes that way It took me thirteen motherfucking years just to make a tape But that don't mean that my rhymes one of the strongest All I know I been trying to make it for the fucking longest Fuck the side of all this, long as you done it When I done it, getting blunted bout to run this bitch Taking them riders down with me, clown with me Leave thirteen in your motherfucking chest and you can count em Nigga go pass the vibe, dividing mad this year Creative catastrophe, leave emcees in closed caskets Hit ya like full metal jackets, cut like hatchets Tight as ratchets, and burn like matches Thick than amino acids, flip like gymnastics, nasty as a pissy mattress Dropping like the temperature in December Clipping em, tipping em, been writing raps far back as I can remember Full of them rocks, everybody move key It was ghetto Djs and sucker emcees Handle your business in this industry of competition Or be at F.W. Bulls washing dishes Bitch I was born to write million dollar rhymes Battle in the hallways of Cohen back in 85 86, 87, 88, hooked up with Big Boy records and made my first demo tape We dropped some real shit in the basement I had big ol' nigga tracks, raps like pavement To come from New Orleans made it hard to surface That's when I got discouraged and joined the service Pissed of and I (?) before long I went to war and served federal time before I made it back home No more rips in my jeans and getting my cream Ain't shit unlucky about my number thirteen I hit the bitch like Bosh! Ow! Never gonna bounce could rap and doing time before I bow How in the fuck you like me right now Told your ass she had said I'd be on top of the pile Cause my rap style is my hustle I shot niggas up like Muslims With the flex like muscle Use a, pretty delivery cause it's most important I form a style sharp enough to cut straight through the bones I came from my welts, gave up my belt I got off from Big Boy records to put my single on the shelf, now Do I do it? Fucking right I did it Should of seen the little children in the street singing I'm Not That Nigga Size ain't nothing nigga, I'm short Shocking nigga, rah! They gave me five hundred dollars, shit I quit both of my jobs Fuck em, got some other shit to do from nine to five My birthday came, and my sister died But next year, Mystikal signed a half a million dollar deal with Jive This shit that's tragic can't be no more Because of my rings I work at A&P no more I drive my land cruiser off the show floor Got the time to time to feel pain, sitting on Volvo's Coming with scheme, up in my dream Who'd a ever thought I'd be a No Limit soldier By the end of that thirteen Thirteen manic motherfucking years!
Written by: CRAIG LAWSON, MICHAEL(MYSTIKAL) TYLER, RICHARD WALTERS
Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Ultra Tunes, Universal Music Publishing Group
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