Lyrics Courtesy - PRhyme
Yo,
where
the
other
one
at?
I
like
this
one
Just
let
it
go,
Preem
Z06
'Vette,
grippin',
feelin'
almost
there
Listenin'
to
Bon
Jovi,
rollin'
"Livin'
on
a
Prayer"
Privy
to
the
gossip
that's
been
said
about
me
constant
It's
the
life
and
times
of
"Bumpy"
Johnson
meets
"Nucky"
Thompson
I
used
to
rap
about
death,
now
I'm
only
concerned
to
live
I
value
relationships,
still
I
keep
it
competitive
Nowadays,
chances
are
that
if
you
see
me
throw
the
match
It
ain't
to
lose
the
fight,
it's
to
walk
away
from
a
burnin'
bridge
I'm
from
a
family
of
alcoholics
and
coke
addicts
Daddy
taught
me
if
the
ass
is
so
fat
It's
a
fact
that
if
you
with
your
ho,
don't
matter
It's
still
appropriate
to
scope
at
it
Livin'
life
with
no
balance
Drivin'
drunk
on
co-pilot,
drivin'
'til
I
total
it
I'm
tryna
stay
afloat,
but
I
got
nobody
to
throw
a
rope
at
it
The
game
is
just
a
game
of
splits
and
politics
wit'
no
ballot
All
kind
of
clips
with
mo'
malice
than
pushin'
If
you
profilin',
there'll
probably
be
more
violence
than
lookin'
I'm
so
stylish,
but
I
ain't
talkin'
eBay,
no
high-end
fashion
either
If
you
catch
me
by
the
runway,
it's
the
one
that's
for
the
PJ
This
one
is
for
my
lyricists,
courtesy
of
my
DJ
(I
can't
control
it,
can't
hold
it,
it's
so
nuts)
(Hustle
hard
in
any
hustle
that
you
pick)
(I,
I,
I
respect
that)
I
done
had
a
lot
of
niggas
say
they
wanna
hurt
me
Somehow,
some
way
they
just
end
up
at
my
mercy
Just
show
some
courtesy
(Hell
yeah,
nigga,
you
know,
and
niggas
still
got
it)
(Believe
that
shit)
I
got
killers
'round
the
way,
ready
to
move
that
work
for
me
Niggas
wanna
ride
my
wave,
bitches
wanna
surfboard
me
All
I
want
is
courtesy,
who
cares
'bout
the
radio?
And
you
could
take
the
cassette
deck
from
off
of
your
old
boombox
And
it
wouldn't
matter,
there's
still
squares
on
your
radio
To
keep
your
wealth,
I
learned
to
stay
to
yo'self
I
call
for
Charl,
tell
him
spray
paint
a
mural
in
Watts
Of
me
spray-paintin'
a
mural
of
Miracle
Watts
Shout-out
to
Michael
"5000"
Watts
I'm
on
that
lean
movement
like
I'm
out
here
tryna
box
Look,
nigga,
this
is
a
boss
thing,
uh
Meanin'
you
gettin'
the
laze'
dot
to
your
offspring
I'm
a
lost
bein',
uh
Try
to
cross
me
without
fallin'
off,
I'm
afraid
not
I'm
a
frayed
knot
like
a
draw
string
I'm
preachin'
to
the
congregation
like
I'm
Peter
Popoff
If
you
can
imagine
me
hopping
up
out
of
the
cabin
Like
I'm
one
of
the
dukes
of
Hazzard
like,
"Fuck
it"
Leave
the
top
off
like
time
for
foreplay
That
last
line
that
was
before
your
time
Like
Big
Ben
sittin'
in
Beyoncé
doorway
While
I'm
receivin'
Four
Seasons,
Norwegian
top
in
Norway
Listenin'
to
rappers
kick
knowledge
That
they
probably
got
from
Touré
These
Michael
Eric
Dyson
niggas
claiming
they
king
Not
knowing
the
kind
of
drama
that
that
bring
I'ma
be
the
first
established
rapper
to
hop
in
that
battle
rap
ring
Turn
that
to
Gatlin'
My
next
album
gon'
be
so
dark
and
so
fly
I
should
see
the
package,
it
wrapped
in
batwings
These
Soul
Train
Music
Award
actors
rock
fake
as
wrestlin'
Dressed
bottom
to
top
in
leather
lookin'
like
bacon
in
Vaseline
How
you
looking
like
beef
jerky?
Beefin'
in
every
verse,
but
never
beefin'
in
person?
Randy
Savage,
you
wouldn't
snap
a
Slim
Jim
You
wouldn't
rip
a
wrappin'
on
Christmas
in
Santa's
attic
Wit'
the
hands
of
Eddie
Scissors
and
you
average
Put
your
motherfuckin'
hands
up
My
job
is
to
move
the
crowd,
move
the
motherfuckin'
crowd
Put
your
motherfuckin'
hands
up
I
respect
that
PRhyme
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