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It be the raw rhyme spitterm, no glitter with no glam |
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I can still turn out your whole jam |
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It's nothin but fam up in the spot, nigga, ready or not |
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And if you wanna see us play, put a buck in the slot |
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We got dangerous plots |
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Schemes and big dreams, big money themes |
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I need just to feed my seed |
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No greed involved, but I still stand tall |
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Be spendin yo time up at the goddamn mall |
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Doin things that don't mean shit |
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Still lookin for tail, I'm lookin for my checks in the mail |
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Without fail we bring it back to its original form |
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Been doin this before you young cats was born |
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Hated in my own backyard, what kinda logic is that? |
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These niggas mad cause I'm bringin it fat |
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In fact, I'm never broke, never blowin the smoke |
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But when I'm standin in the crowd, they be knowin the quotes |
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It's like, how in the hell do these cats even sell? |
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Be spittin big words your ass can't even spell |
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Stars and quasars, a hundred and ten bars |
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Of pure rhymes, I'ma tell you one last time |
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My rhyme's elite, give me 265 feet |
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I might leave niggas sprawled in the street |
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When you spit yours, the shit didn't sound right |
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And now it's because you didn't lay it down right |
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Cover your folks with all the chronic weed smoke |
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You just found out that Ras didn't need folks |
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I do it myself, I keep cash at the spot |
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Be up in your face, whether you like Ras or not |
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[CHORUS] |
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This is my life, I gotta live it |
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And if you cats really |
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Don't know we gotta let y'all feel it |
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It's never the same |
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You know we gots to maintain |
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We figured you out, we know your whole damn game [x2] |
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[VERSE 2: Planet Asia] |
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Yo, bon voyage, load the track as we take off |
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I break off with explodin facts you can't shake off |
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Experiment in Cali, I rep the Valley up to Central |
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Hoes, flows, big dough and smashin rentals |
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Cross the country like young guns bustin at you outdoors |
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These backpack niggas don't even know what they out for |
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Frontin like they don't want cash |
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Every since I made my first g I knew I had to make shit last |
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I write rhyme for rhyme, line till my mind got elaborate |
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A complicated torturous arrangement on my tablet |
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I'm hard-fisted, on some smoke-a-cigar-split shit |
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Straight out the yard district, here to leave scars inflicted |
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On your wack-ass production, the way we freak beats is unique |
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You feel the heat just like a backlash or somethin |
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I write fast but think slow, I keep my cash wrinkled |
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Yo, catch me blowin grams in Amsterdam at Paradiso |
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Pullin notches, and not only do we rock fresh gear |
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But when it comes to hip-hop, we like a breath of fresh air |
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Like yeah, and just to let y'all side-busters know |
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We rep the underground, but still we out to make dough |
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Know what I'm sayin? |
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[CHORUS] |
