Lyrics:
(Damn, Ben Marc shot this too?)
Cash rules everything around me
C.r.e.a.m., get the-get the-get the-get the
Get the-get the-get the-get the money,
pray this fuckin' album burn their kingdom to the ground
I pray this verse will lead a million kings into their crown
Nobody's perfect, we're all
tell?
Whole team turning 30 like that album by Adele
Its 90Sitcom like fresh prince or saved by the bell
Them streams don't count if you just playing em
Felon, fights behind me on the intersection
Sex and drugs my anthology on perfection
Dress superb admired by conspirists
Who wanna try me but ain't high
microphones that I can clutch
Droppin' bombs, combinin' the club attracts
like the Ol' Sugarhill Gang, King Tim and Fatback
There's no question
One mental block lead to another, shit it's dominos
Mixtape Sean, but I'm in album mode, ooh
She give me praise, I love her angel face
Ass so fat she
fuck with a poppa then fuck around and hit a sister
I'm an underground king motherfucker call me Mister
Kilogram, Mr. Woodgrain, Mr. Brick,
feeling like a beast, I'm on top of the world
Surrounded by the baddest girls, I swear this shit is absurd
I dropped two album on my own, another's
get chips no frito
Stand by me
I am not Ben E
She want king
So she can take the laurels
Rest on thousand count sheets
What I smoke, OG
How I go, odee
Back in the day I was filler
Canonically, nowadays, I'm feelin' triller
Ride around my city, I'm a pillar
Turns into a zoo when I land, Ben Stiller,
Man, this is the last.. record on the album
I got my man Craig Craig in the house
Kevin Dee from Midnight Express Crew's in the house
Charles'
We hope you've been taking care of yourself
And finding the true meaning
Of this life
In which you were given
Find your purpose, this was his
King
around my crib for a fuck to give
But I couldn't find it
My notebook should be made of a wooden binder
Cause that's what my albums be sellin'
But I
reality flow
I'm tryna time my album dropping
With a reality show
Cock the MAC-11 in front of Hot 97
And call my publicist
Tell her we in press heaven (Ha
Hey 'Pac, it's yo' boy
Hey man so far I've been listenin' to your album
And I ain't heard nothin' you could kick back and smoke a beadie to
You
a Corvette
Watch your boy blow up in front
Of your eyes: war vet
Give the fans nuttin' but fire
Now they want more of it
E'rybody want my album
It ain't in
basement (ha ha)
Feminist women love Eminem
"Chicka, chicka, chicka, Slim Shady, I'm sick of him
Look at him, walkin' around, grabbin' his you-know-what
basement (ha ha)
Feminist women love Eminem
"Chicka, chicka, chicka, Slim Shady, I'm sick of him
Look at him, walkin' around, grabbin' his you-know-what
This the real hip hop
(Ay, this time around I need five mics)
This the real hip hop
(?Cause my whole album ain't about ice)
Huh, back in the days, cool
kicked around by the others
Synonymous soil, held them up from down under
I'm pleading for gifts, pleading for answers
Riddles of life, can give you
when it's time to scoop my group
I thirst, for loops, I told the Genie next
I want the King Tee albums plus Xzibit on cassette
Next, I told the Genie
Hey 'Pac, it's yo' boy
Hey man so far I've been listenin' to your album
And I ain't heard nothin' you could kick back and smoke a beadie to
You
nuts, then I (yeah)
Check my ball hair (what?), make sure it's all there (yeah)
Then call the pallbearer (yeah)
It's Music to Be Murdered By again, why
albums flop
I'm on my knees and daily praying for my enemies
Pray they repent and turn to God and change their destiny
High yella light brown skin
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