Lyrics:
motherfuckin' prophet
Beg your pardon?
D-d-did I stutter?
Pen to the canvas like I'm bob Ross (Bob Ross)
Call me big boss (Big boss)
On the come up like Steve
Ray's almost got my ass kicked
Rather just chill in the yard in my casket
Call up the hoes, have em swing by the tomb
And get a little sticky stank up
sorry ain't no time to wait up
If they feel some type of way I promise we can make up ok
I'm on my way up
Gotta get my cake up
Even got let go by my
Word by Bob Hartman
Music by Pete Orta, Lonnie Chapin and John Elefante
Psalm 112:7
He?s got a straight head
In a world of brain dead
He?s got
running now
All horses up
Talking 350
I'm talking Key Griffey
High batting average
Yawl niggas cowards
My niggas savage
No Bob Saget
Attract hoes like
dreamin' up def rhymes
Words turn into paragraphs
Like Bob Dylan said, it takes a lot to laugh
It takes a train to cry and I don't know why
But even
birds, and I tossed it
Cartier frames, vintage tee from Bob's liquor store
I'm quick to cut baby off, if she movin' too slow
Start the coupe from the crib
like missing my weed, I get higher than Bob
It's a eye for an eye in my city, that's Baltimore City
Where even the bitches be wicked in poverty
the fate,like you got a runner that came from the blade,
304 type of action bitch the pussy damn ugh, copper by the fucking taste,
she not loyal she straight for
cookin' up in my lab
I'm always tryna take dabs
I'm always trying to get high
Maybe I'm trying to get by
I'm out here, tryna survive
This girl, she thinks
I've got a real ambition for the task
Been assigned by Jesus Christ to carry out Redeemer's plans
Stepped up in the game and brought the Spirit with
headed straight to hell
By the highway
No matter how long and how hard
That I prayed
So I might as well learn how to make
This guitar talk
Somebody said
1982,
Cooked up my own post-modern salmagundi stew.
[CHORUS]
Straight outta Stockholm, lap-top rap,
American iconoclast, alien boom-bap,
Cali's my
see 'em getting weaker
Walnuts, shake your boobs to the beat
Walnuts, set fire to your seat
Walnuts, make you bob and weave
The second that it's
Sometimes I'm Bob Dylan put blood on these tracks, for real
So, God-willin' you'll feel what I'm spillin'
Yeah, I never quit, I'm still syndicatin' up
Me
life
I can only imagine that's fucked up
I can only imagine, Uncle Bob
Life's about decisions man
It's in your hand and you got it
Just take control if
Ahaha! Bob, check him,(I give up man), no dope on him, no man, well
you're still goin downtown potna!!
*(chorus)*
(benefits)
You said it was cap, but you turn around
Did the same thing, you a motherfuckin' hypocrite (cap)
Bob the builder, we passed up the Dillinger's
Bobby's goin Digital
Hoverin the city inside the Wonder Woman's invisible jet
Clouded by the Meth we move undetected
in secret society sects,
you must face your own fate
no straight path so is life nothing is straight
maybe one day you'll wake up and realize
you the live by the sword you die
Straight Actin
Fresh Cut Shined Up Bones, (Shine Em Up)
Throw Back And Girbaud (I Got Them Bauds)
New Whips On 24's (Duece 4's)
And I'm About To Hop On Them
I wake up I count up I roll something up
Pour me a cup I'm addicted to mudd
Niggas be hatin I don't give a fuck
When it come to the check yea I
point it straight up at the sky
And shoot heaven on down for you
Oh well the bars are always open
And the time is always right
And if God's good word
the truth not fairy tales like mother goose
Ayo yo wait up Surreal, I tell it straight up
Man, we kinda skinny but we keep our weight up
So guess who's
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