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(\"We gonna rock a little something like this\") [x4] |
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I don't wanna ill, I just wanna chill |
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And keep my hand around a 100 dollar bill [x4] |
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Sitting and thinking about the time I wrote four stacks of rhymes |
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For dimes, made me wanna go back to doing crimes |
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On the corner, but the street life? Hotter than a sauna |
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So I don't think I'm gonna, plus the fact I was born to |
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Nigga to hit the land with the mic in hand and |
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SP and hit it like (huh) Dizzy Gillespe |
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And this is how I do, not three or two |
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But one nigga from Queens for the hip-hop fiends |
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All over, gas a honey up to let me unclothe her |
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And this time around check how I get down |
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As I go the extra mile, raised in Carlyle |
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Born up in Harlem, ever since been destined for stardem |
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So move over bacon, it's the anti-faking |
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Beatmaking nigga that makes the Earth quake and |
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Let the man push through, others are left without a clue |
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Large Professor in the house one two |
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I don't wanna ill, I just wanna chill |
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And keep my hand around a 100 dollar bill [x4] |
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About as deadly as a nine, hit a rock man kind |
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Like a landmine with the ill shit that I design |
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Professor, keeping sucker chump crews under pressure |
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Like this girl I know, but yo, I can't stress her |
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Cause I'm cool like that, matter fact even cooler |
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Opposite of sun ruler, having nothing to do with Arula and Keena |
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You can catch me joyriding on Cocina |
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As I keep the compotition mind up in between a |
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Rock and a hard place, and just like a car chase |
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I'm action packed with the drama of Scarface |
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I'm real, honey'll hit me off with a meal |
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And I'm out so I can get me a stout, what's it all about? |
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Trying to stack off a contract, Jack |
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And stay black, as long as I can keep that intact |
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Ain't a damn thing stopping the one that keep ya hopping |
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Do you wonder what I'm dropping? |
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I don't wanna ill, I just wanna chill |
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And keep my hand around a 100 dollar bill [x4] |
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So strap up for the return of the brother that earn |
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Props, but this time, I got to get more burn, hops |
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So record company man, please give me a push |
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So I can swing to higher levels of life like a kids and wife |
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And I'll deliver, for a while I didn't give a |
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Frustrated for fucking with the snakes that slither |
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But nevertheless, in 3-D's Large Profess |
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With what I would call a bullshit-proof vest |
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And yes, I make the beats you could feel in your chest |
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And write the rhymes that reflect a young man blessed |
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With the mind and motivation hitting your station |
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Coming back to attack off a ghetto vacation |
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For the hip-hop nation |
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I don't wanna ill |
