Lyrics:
into her five point o
I wanted her because she looked like Janet Jackson
Caramel complexion, sportin sexy fashion
"Hello, how you're doin?" I said, "they
Ah, yeah, we finna get ready to bump that smoked out, locked out, part two
Mystic Stylez, Three Six Mafia in the ho
We finna do that shit
Mafia
of work
You can ask the last few niggas that played wit' me, they'll tell you bullets hurt
And I ain't talkin' about the pews that you sit in but I got
ain't feelin me
That you gotta be harder to please to feel it to me
Feel this, nigga bounce
[Chorus] ? 2X w/ ad libs
[Royce Da 5'9"]
What, what? We
Y'all youngsters don't know nothin' about Logic
Back in my day, motherfucker, he was that motherfuckin' nigga
It was Logic, Michael Jackson
compare me to nobody, Gucci Mane I'm not a clone
If you ain't chasing that bag then it's something wrong
She's black but act like a yellow bone
She's short
and Flex don't roll unless they Andrew Jackson
It's Brooklyn by me the crook the I-B ya even look
At ID you gettin' hooked to I-V
Motherfuckers huh
beginning's comin'
Niggas been had drive, had to get the engine runnin'
You either die chasin' dreams or you gon' live for nothin'
Shit, nigga I'd get
reload, I'ma map that (Woo!)
You gon' Fly Too, it's a Drac' in my backpack (What?!)
"YF2", "OVO", that'd be a clap-clap
Ale' my nigga, my bro since
to who?
By the way homie what's gangsta to you?
(Money, dope and alcohol and plenty bitches all up on your dick)
I got that
How can C-Bo be wrong?
How can
I dig Modigliani (1)
Jolson doin' "Swanee (2) "
Several maharanee (3) are my intimates, too
I played with Montovani (4)
That's a lot of string to get
to the hills, to the back of the tracks
A-A-ask them hos, did I do that?
I'm coming boisterous with 5 million switches
I'm the man with single
This is what you're tellin' me, okay
It all comes down to this huh? Okay
This is what you fuckin' tellin' me?
That this is it? Okay (grr)
How
born I was
Condemned by the Catholic Church
Warsaw, battlin' the streets we inhabited
I'm sugar like Ray Robinson
You ain't even saccharine
Leavin' you
left your barrel
And I don't even carry guns no more, I don't got to
Got undercover cops that'll legally pop you
And I done seen a lot of people
half Moon
I'm gon stretch you till your eyes Close
I'll sing out for you extra Measures
Cuz nothing compares to the Pleasure
That we give to eachother
tryin' to get my ring like Ewing
Coyote gang get a fuck n**** ruined
Nothin' but Andrew Jacksons in my pocket thought I was with the five
N**** thought
useless if yo stack don't have Ulysses S Grant
That's the 50s is you with me let's hit the bank then
Money like music I Benjamin Franklin
I'm out for
that hammer, It'll do anything you tell it to."
John Henry's mammy had about a dozen babies
John Henry's pappy broke jail about a dozen times
The babies
Nothin mo and nothin less, can't compare me to the rest (Fly)
I get some breaktime til you label me the best
Still a long way to go, can't get ahead
Yeah, Hit-Boy
CHOMP 2, CHOMP 2
5 AM in Atlanta, I'm writin' raps
Sometimes I'm fightin' for my dreams but it seems like they fightin' back
The a p two tone
Three five in a wood smoking vlone
She keep texting my line what your freak on
After she give me that neck tell her be gone
Know I
part with your gun and stay this cold
Yo, we in the streets where it's nothin' but love
I'm them leather shits, you the Michael Jackson glove
I'm in
and compare him to Michael Jackson
Alberto couldn't take it, he just stopped showing up
And whenever he walked the malls, he just felt like throwing up
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