Lyrics Awnaw [All Hooks Up Version] - Nappy Roots

Yeah, haha Nappy Roots
Awnaw!

Awnaw! Hell naw! Man
Y'all done up and done it
Awnaw! Hell naw! Boy
Y'all done up and done it
Awnaw! Hell naw! Boy
Y'all done up and done it
Ah, y'all done up and done it
Man, y'all done up and done it

My first song was like 48 bars with no hook
You hear me flippin through my pages out my favorite notebook
The microphone was in the closet (what?) No headphones, we lost it
Niggas scared to get some water, roaches hangin' over the faucets
No AC, Tez'll break a sweat just tryin' to make beats
E-Dubz was being a hustler (hey man!)
All play flirtin' all his customers, and flat broke
Nappy smokin' blacks out on the back po'ch
I'm thinkin' I got everything a country boy could ask for

Now what we do to get here? (Say that boy!)
Lay it down and bring it to ya raw (say that boy!)
Hey now, we hurt some, suffered for more, takes what we work for
Hated for for the cussin', but the hatred it made us cuss more
Held on, but it was hard, stepped up, took charge
Ran through what we scared up, but what was we afraid for?
Look what we made of, heart that what made us
Being here is alright, but must believe we won't fall!

Them country boys on the rise
With them big fat wheels on the side
Peep them vertical grills on the ride
And aw-awww-awww-awww

Them country boys
With them big fat wheels
Peep the vertical grills
And awww!

My yegga, we hogwild, bet that from that roota to that toota-file
Hell naw, them country boys ain't headed south for six miles
Kentucky mud, them kinfolk, twankies with them hundred-spokes
Skullied on that front po'ch, plus you know they got 'dro
'79 coupe DeVille, vertical Caddy grill
Interstate 65 headin' down to Cashville
Glass filled, to the tippy-top, back-seat Benz
Spent my last cent on the rent, left with pocket lints

A damn shame, gotta grind anything and everything
Jimmy Crack Corn, cross the county line with Mary Jane
A long time, a gravel road, to cash and fame and sold my soul
To Hell and back, and back and forth, with same jeans and nappy 'fro

I might hop off the Harley, smoke pot like Bob Marley
Not parties with charties, wylin' like they swallowin Bacardi
Them butter-skin, Prophit gotta like them
Understand you 'bout to lose ya life fuckin' with them

Them country boys on the rise
With them big fat wheels on the side
Peep the vertical grills on the ride
And aw-awww-awww-awww

Them country boys
With them big fat wheels
Peep the vertical grills
And awww!

Them country boys
With them big fat wheels
Peep the vertical grills
And awww!

Them country boys
With them big fat wheels
Peep the vertical grills
And awww!

Them country boys on the ride
With them big fat wheels on the side
Peep the vertical grills on the ride
And aw-awww-awww-awww
Them country boys
With them big fat wheels
Peep the vertical grills
And awww!