| Ohh. |
| steppin up in my motherfuckin uhh.
|
| Chuck Taylors, Knick kickers, Wallabee’s
|
| On my ass I got the umm. |
| um. |
| khakis, 501's
|
| On my back I got the uhh. |
| sweatshirt
|
| You know, with the fat three creases
|
| Uhh, my t-shirt, Slingshot, uhh. |
| khaki shirt
|
| Umm, and I got the Cake cutter in my—in my pocket
|
| Uhh, got the afro, the braids
|
| Motherfuckin uhh, rollers
|
| «You got to believe in somethin»
|
| And I just ask my motherfuckin self, uhh
|
| «Why not believe in me?»
|
| To G or not to G, is the question
|
| And like Smith told Wesson
|
| I’m shady with the .380 old school diploma
|
| I’ll leave that ass in a coma, so
|
| If you got a herringbone, Welcome to the Terrordome
|
| Two-eleven, sorry Reverend
|
| Oh my god, gettin robbed
|
| Reach for the smog, «Atomic Dog»
|
| Hard to swallow, janky as Rollo
|
| Count to ten, and don’t try to follow
|
| Cause just like Waco, I can take fo'
|
| ATF, to they death
|
| Bust a left on Western, go and get a room
|
| Don’t want to be a felon like Stacey Koon
|
| Get the right bitch, hit the light switch, here we go
|
| Tap that ass like this — really doe
|
| «You got to believe, somethin.»
|
| West Side Lynch Mob
|
| «I got to believe in me.»
|
| Cause I’m a motherfuckin G
|
| Cause I’m a mother-fuckin.
|
| («And who the fuck are you?»)
|
| Thirty in a holdin tank, catch the vapors
|
| Make me a pillow out of toilet paper
|
| Concrete bench kickin' off the hemorrhoids;
|
| Eses deep, don’t fuck with dem boys
|
| Phone check, collect call from the baller
|
| Her mama said please don’t call her
|
| Do-Wah-Diddy, far from New Jack City
|
| Seen one of my peers, «What the fuck you doin in here?»
|
| He said, «One-eighty-seven on the enemy
|
| And they treat me like I just shot a Kennedy!»
|
| Deputy bitch thinks she’s the Queen Bee
|
| Ink on my thumb, index, and pinky
|
| «Sir, what set you from?» |
| Play dumb
|
| «General popu-la-tion»
|
| Mama put your house up, and I can bounce up
|
| Out this motherfucker, that’s why I love ya
|
| Out like a boss, with a half-pint of sauce
|
| Got the shit sewed up like Betsy Ross
|
| What a friend know? |
| Buy some indo
|
| Never fuck with a silly ho — really doe
|
| «You got to believe, somethin.»
|
| West Side Lynch Mob
|
| «I got to believe in me.»
|
| Cause I’m a motherfuckin G
|
| Cause I’m a mother-fuckin.
|
| («And who the fuck are you?»)
|
| Knock you out like NyQuil, I’ll kill you quick
|
| You sucker-for-love-ass trick
|
| So don’t run up, wit ya gun up
|
| Cause I got the back breaker, double pump rump shaker
|
| Cause we can play hookie in the Aqua Boogie
|
| With concrete Nikes, ya gets no stripes
|
| Livin unforgiven with the mic on
|
| And punks runnin like roaches with the light on
|
| And that’s all the shit I’m startin
|
| Bust a cap (ka-kow-POW) like Jerome on Martin
|
| You lookin for a punk with benefits
|
| Cause you got a baby, that take many shits
|
| And you know I got a grip like a baby on a tit
|
| Scopin', hopin', thighs open
|
| But I kick back, six-pack, and hit the Phillie slow
|
| Hooker ho — really doe
|
| «You got to believe, somethin.»
|
| West Side Lynch Mob
|
| «I got to believe in me.»
|
| Cause I’m a motherfuckin G
|
| Cause I’m a mother-fuckin.
|
| («And who the fuck are you?»)
|
| «You got to believe, somethin.»
|
| West Side Lynch Mob
|
| «I got to believe in me.»
|
| Cause I’m a motherfuckin G
|
| Cause I’m a mother-fuckin.
|
| («And who the fuck are you?») |