Lyrics:
come to the studio, they think it's a circus I'm locking the door
I got a cloak, the boy making bands then I'ma go ghost (Yeah)
If you tripping on me I
I'm breaking
Y'all spending thousands of dollars on studio time
I make hits out the mu'fuckin basement
Like fuck it, I'll do it myself
I'm
within the circle how we do
when we kick that fact
but where's the meaning?
I take it one night by one night
but where's the meaning?
I
I'm mostly surrounded by apes, gorillas
Out of a broken home so
They label us hateful niggas
Never take a nation of mills
It takes a killer
has been crazy my boy had a baby I'm tripping cuz he ain't much older than me
We used to go to the studio shout out Big Sea cuz he let me record it for
throwing heat rocks
If I'm on my high horse yeehaw say that boy spittin no beat box let's get it
Yeah Yeah call me young David throwing heat rocks
If I'm
I'm givin' it to you old school style, no album cover gimmicks,
No intros, no shout outs, nothin' but straight lyrics,
If you in your car buckle
on
I'll jump on the beat and the beat gon pump
Boy I swing from the fall, it's a long rope
Tryna get out of my headspace, long gone
I can't seem to get out
It's that big drip
Aye, aye, aye
M.A what up (Zombie on the track)
Yeah (Whoa, sheesh, sheesh)
Solo dolo in the studio with it (LPC)
Gang gang with
dinner
I roll studio and record a motion picture
My content's catered like I
Already know the listener
People have said I've sold out
And it's all chat
Hurricane Bobby in the studio blowing trees
What's the topic? I drop it
Fuck around then leave them all concussed
When I bust, no thrust, this world we
Game would say
"Hi!"s name in that manner
Many years went by
Still no legitimate answer
Anyway, I put out a mixtape in 12th grade
Hub City threat, minor
'd be my last song
Me, Squeaky, Flex and J, on Saratoga Street
Smokin' white boys, bumpin' dopefiend beats
Eighty-eight, my pockets wasn't straight,
never short change ya
but if you run out of breath it means danger
now I seen alotta kick step impressionist
but I'm not impressed so I guess that it
Stunting for my friends like "Watch
A nigga check this bitch" "Hey bitch
You better have my mother
Fucking money by Thursday"
"I'm sorry mom just go with it
to pass it on
Two years ago, I thought it'd be my last song
Me, Squeaky, Flex and J, on Saratoga Street
Smokin white boys, bumpin dopefiend beats
To get out of the heat
The beat the killer
Cmon everybody
There ain't none chiller
I'm bigger than 9/11
And that boy called Stifler
Taste like a Vino
turned fascists while the other half died
Why's it that a ticket out
Is always a Faustian deal with the devil?
The field's not level whatever
Give me
finding out
There ain't to much pleasure up in this life
And its more about the sacrifice
I smoke this weed to get my mind off shit
I write to the beat
to the opps, never back down
He'll get beat with the belt like it's Smackdown
Studio, juug life, trap house
Crack cocaine my track outs
Up late night like
I don't have no one but me myself and I
Listen
I gotta get some work done man
I ain't come in the studio just to chill
This Swizz just flew out
boys
Keep your identity crisis under the table
I always knew who I was and I'll always be more famous
Check it
For the best in the vendor biz
feelin nothin
I am consumed by 666
Got my bags packed with Gucci and Ralph Lauren
German boys we roll up in the foreign
Zoomin' around in the Benz
No
on the check
My studio connect
Im on your favorite magazine
Im a do it by myself
I been there before
Stay knocking at my door
Hands out stressed out
I aint
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