Lyrics:
put a twist wit' it
You can't do like me, I'm by myself
I do it so good, I don't need nobody else
What's happenin'? What's up?
Got da purp fired up
Young Ke Ke he down wit us
South Side nigga and we down to bust I'm number one
[Scarface]
Too many niggas takin' rap for a joke
You be up for one
be in this bitch wit' mine (DJ Drama)
(You niggas can't fuck with us)
They like, "Get in yo' bag," bitch, I been in mines
If Mel order four I
Daddy Fat Sax, G pretty D, are they same, boo
But I'm backed by the Dungeon Family, so you can go 'head wit' all that stabbin' me
'Cause I will jab
ya'll tone
Now you see the chrome
I'm a blast it for ya I'm a blast it for ya
It's Freeway all by myself
I'm in da place all on my own
In da club
Money, Geto Boys and Underground Kingz
Wrote the rules on how to ball without a bodyguard
Learn to move or get hit with the John Gotti charge
I pray you
I'ma tell you once nigga I don't talk twice
If you get down bad wit me
Nigga you gone loose yo life
I'm the real Uptown Nigga 4 Life
And if I killed
the broad day
Hit the whoa walking thru the hallway
Cut the cash and we do it all day
Rock wit me you gone do what I say
Smoking blunts and they come in
Straight out the gate y'all, we drop hits
Now tell me, how nasty can you get
All the way from the hood to your neck of the woods
It's ripped, one thing
the limos wit his vehicles
(Yeah that's the way it go when you got money to blow)
Ho! well then, say no mo'
Just think, I was on my way to the sto'
I got
get 'em up
Got to get with ya
Hit you wit' these things that I'm holding
Who wanna squab with the frozen?
Now, who wanna battle with the chosen?
This real talk type shit, I swear to God
We just don't call this shit drink, you know I'm sayin'?
Lil bitch, you ridin' niggas dicks like a bitch,
house, thirty pounds in my book bag
Black 'lac, black tag, fin' to hit a lick again
You a head bussa put yo hand wit yo fist den
Franchise hate me,
showing effort
Wen none I been receiving
Outta all the spots on the leopard
You the one i peepin
Wit all dat salt am pepper
I guess da grass was greener
Let
gon' take me on your private tour
Hol' up, I'ma lay you on your pretty face
And hit it from the back
Like you hit the brakes
Got a pretty face
the whip push Button
Chain on Freeze but I’m hot as any oven
You can hate on me while I keep dis comin
I fill dat blunt up wit Pressure my N***a
No I
lookin at your picture my nigga
puttin hash with the weed wit a mixture of liqour
we can't kick it you ain't wit us is the shit i can't figure
nigga
by the loaf like i Just hit the lottery
Sliding thru the city ina hemi stripes Gunmetal grey
Glock the same color it’s wit me I’m Bustin hella plays
money regimen
Wit' my gettin' money machine, nah what I mean?
New York times
Come listen to these New York rhymes
A southern nigga with a New York mind
I tilt my heads to real niggas who been real wit' it (who been real)
I know you love the streets to death, just don't get killed in it (don't get)
I
ain't no Mexican
I got nines in the bedroom, glocks in the kitchen
A shotty by the shower if you wanna shoot me while I'm shittin
Uhh, the lesson from
everytime I drop
Makin' hits after hits, no, I won't stop
Lil' kids to adults, homey, rappin' my songs
If you thought J.D. wrote this, you wrong
If you
boo you can come and get in that Coupe
Take a hit of that fruit get high wit' Wayne
Fly wit' Birdman Jr. Wave high to planes
Say bye to lames don't
me!)
I shut 'em down
(Get off me! You can't hold me!)
To the next plateau niggas bet my flow
Betta bet I role wit more control
Gotta bring
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