Lyrics:
pockets constantly hurting these muthafuckas
That's why when I flex always they lurking these muthafuckas
This could be you if you just kept working you
they sap what they can
It gets much worse when dismay, is always rapped, round your hands
In applause, I feel delighted, but appalled, by what's incited
You all can call me Lara Croft
Now that I'm kicking this party off
I'm on the rise, I cannot be stopped
Get in my way, you'll get carted off
Do not
down but we the victims
Like what the fuck we ever did screaming fuck the pigs
Like how the fuck you get away with killing another kid
Another black man
back, and relax at one time
With the rhyme co-signed by Doc Funkenstein.
We drop something fine with nothing to prove
It's one nation under a groove now
shining with the grill and woman
Slab shining with the grill and woman
I'm Mike Jones (Who) Mike Jones the one and only you can't clone me
Got a lot
that’s what I’m into
Though I’ve got struggles
One handed snuggles
Are a sin too
Me too
You should always
Use two
Hands
But don’t get handsy
Without
rap this
Enlightening minds with my lyrical tactics
In life everything ain't always what it seems
But people are enchanted by things that gleam
You
Come on let's get high
I make the four hop {*hydraulic sound*} pull up at the spot
Weed by the barrels in my G'd up apparel
Stompin' in the party,
All right, let's start with the most basic
Question there is: Are
You a religious man? Do you believe in God?
Well, that'll do for openers i
Think I
There's a moonshine party right up the street
I think I'll swing by and take a peek
I see a blue-eyed blonde girl starin' at me
She walk right over
fuck with paigons we don't fuck with no hoe
On my grind I could do this alone
On my jones
yeah yeah
On my jones
yeah
On my Jones on my Jones how I
choose
I'm tellin y'all niggas, if its not double R
I'mma spell my name out on the side of your car
Come and Ruff Ryde with us
If you wanna get high
If you don't got a body, you can't relate
If you don't bang, you can't get in the car
Big Woo, know I'm shootin' them stars
Mama beggin' me to pray
else
She does have a point do you feel you
Get the proper love from New York?
Hell fucking no
And I never understood that because
You ran the same
small talk with the department head
When you're trying not to think of what she did in bed
'Cause she led him by the hand through her office door
to the point
Whereby they might more
Fully enjoy the ambiance of Miami By Night)
Where ya from? Ah, the bus
Which one? You know the last tour
You know leather
Leaving sweet home Alabama
Got my pistols by my side
I always turn to the music
I love to hear that freebird fly
I'm leaving sweet home Alabama
With
the mains
If you want more you'll get served
We don't care if you just ate
We the Jones's so we don't lag, always keeping up the game
Rolling the sixty's,
crack tho
Grinding with my niggas fuck them bitches til the pack gone
Learned that from Bun B Rest In Peace to Sweet Jones
Uh Mind on my money I'm a get
drop
I be at the stud' in the cool, with the draw walking in the nude
Telling her that I can come through, and I can get her into a interlude
for George Jones hits
Drinkin' Jack Black tryin' to kick back
'til the condo's looking like a shotgun shack
You'll be one of us no matter where
paint with the gold thang shinin'
Hands out the window, I'm blinded by diamonds
Like they say, all good things to an end
Cause in the game you either
Can you please read this one time? What does it say?
"To big Bulgarian patriot, and good my friend George"
You can't stop me
You can't stop me
Ima
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