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Seven in the morning police at my door |
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But I spent last night on someone else's floor |
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Out the back window didn't know where I was |
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I was still kinda buzzed with a head full of drugs |
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[Murs] |
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Lookin' at my Nixon it's about that time |
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To go and save the world from the daily grind |
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Speakin' of which, I gotta hit the OC |
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For a quick sesh through my skate park OG |
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Oh please, this is still mid-city |
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Wanna check my street cred go ahead come get me |
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On the block like mopeds or the threads in your Dickies |
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And I float code red off the head so swiftly |
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Stole the scribbles show |
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Man had the feds go get me |
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Still got head from your thoroughbred |
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No hickies, oh really? |
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Throw a veil on your Philly |
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Took pictures of a crack like that bell out in Philly |
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Had to kick out my tail 'cause she smelled like Billy |
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Smoking blunts left her breath so stale coulda killed me |
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Silly quick-witted when I spit the shit get it |
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I mean sit kitted, I mean, aw shit |
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It's amazing I remember all the different shit I'm into |
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I try to stay focused on getting legal tender |
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Gotta stay on the grind cause if the legends get signed |
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Gotta split that dough between 8 7 6 5 |
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[Slug] |
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4 and 3 and 2 and 1 |
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And when I'm on the mic, the women come |
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Down with A-N-T, MURS and you're not |
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And I got more rhymes than California got cops |
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[Murs] |
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Nine in the mornin' police at my door |
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Wonder what the fuck they want to talk to me for |
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She said she wanted money for some fundraiser shit |
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I slammed the door in her face and said "Fuck you bitch!" |
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[Slug] |
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Looking at my Nixon it's about that time |
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For me to light another cigarette and settle my mind |
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Foot soldier, been waiting for the took over |
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Probably won't be getting naked, if she looks sober |
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I'm a primate with pimp-like mind state |
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Raising the curb to make contemporaries irate |
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Still obsessed with your breasts and your fishnet |
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Beating on my thin chest screaming out "Mid-West!" |
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My nature is to make you a believer |
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On your stereo receiver or your barely legal beaver |
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Buzzin' overhead spittin' fly game |
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Nowadays cats be getting paid and laid up off of my name |
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Wait a minute, take a number |
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Made a visit to your village with this fresh baked biscuit |
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And stayed consistent |
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Breaking in the heads ain't as difficult |
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When half of them are trippin' over how they missed the boat |
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The key is control but your flow is contrived |
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Keep it in my soul take it with when I die |
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Plug that mic in and let heaven get live |
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Turn a groupie into an angel when she 8 7 6 5 |
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[MURS] |
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4 and 3 and 2 and 1 |
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And when I'm on the mic all your home girls come |
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Down with A-N-T, Slug and you're not |
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And I got more rhymes than rappers who got shot |
