Текст песни Jam (feat. D-Bo) - Eastman Records

Lemme tell ya a story about a moolie like me
I used to be a little fat at about five three but
Than I got five five an started getting high
God I swear I hit your reefer all the fuckin time
So lemme get the microphone check I've won two or three
Battles in my life for five or six different reasons
So don't be the seventh mothafucka to go an get me to
Tease the fans with a one on one smack down
Mothafucka act wild, than they wanna ask how
Could you really do it
Like I ain't wanna be the one pursuing
Titties on the stage an fifties in my hands
Pocket full of M&M's plus them rubber bands

Just to jam for the afternoon
Maybe spend a buck or two
Every bodies in line waiting for a cup of proof
Catch me in the back screaming fuck the truth
Delphic roots, let me prove, that

I'm switching from a Glock to a C-Z
Cause I hate the plastic
So if you're stepping to me with that fake shit
Know it's never lasting an I'm asking politely
What the fuck the hype be
There's too many people selling these records
An don't even know how to spite the fact
That I got murderous intuitions
Mixed with quick submissions boxed by the Don
Filtered through the cracks with a little marijuana
An a Asinine attitude, plus a couple of bucks
From a shot that I blew into the fountain of youth
Minus the jewels hanging from the vision
Pot's the only poison that I'm picking infinitely
Until I feel okay to steal your girl an
Crack her like a glow stick
Just to pass her back to bright for you to even joke with
It's hopeless, I'm stoked with dope ness
Fighting this horoscope with, a lot of homies that sniff the snow
When it's cold but I hope that when it's hot
I'll be with some mothafucka's who keep it pushing nonstop an

Just to jam for the afternoon
Maybe spend a buck or two
Every bodies in line waiting for a cup of proof
Catch me in the back screaming fuck the truth
Delphic roots, let me prove, that

A death by a thousand bands may seem deceitful
But Kurt Cobain probably wrote see no evil
Point be there's no limit to how far that people
Will, Go, So
You got to keep it running an make sure
Your thumb ain't up on the prints
As blue as it seems, my visions red
An I feel like getting rich to the point where I'm the prince
Zoinks got a rhyme that fits, anaphylactic shock
With a lime that ticks on the back of your neck
Where the llama spits an I am this
Infamous small town flowa and you know I
Get the hoes going whenever Bo's fro's growing
An I got my white socks, Trinidad I'm on the way
Rose gold on my wrist, all I needs a nice box

Just to jam for the afternoon
Maybe spend a buck or two
Every bodies in line waiting for a cup of proof
Catch me in the back screaming fuck the truth
Delphic roots, let me prove, that

It's like fucking chocolate on vanilla cake
Everybody knows, ya got to make the earth quake
In a way that's never been done before
I just wanna move up out of here and maybe
Buy a bungalow with a coup
Windows tinted, with a
An so I, walk through the sticks with these guns
Up on my waist, smoking in the mirror
Trying to keep a pace and fight the munchies
In a night shift I'm doing more than you would want me too
An I don't give two shits, this is for my pops
Up in the box who couldn't quit sipping liquor
Never been sicker, trying to find a to kick a fast beat
Cause you know Bo, don't ever be concerned
To ask me to keep it on the low
As I approach the scope to cope with this a thousand yard stare
I'm gonna be dropping bombs where the ether be
Killing two birds while I'm stoned prestigiously
The Seagal's see more shit than the crows do
Cause I'm bringing bodies to the coast
Like I'm supposed too an that's east side bitch
On the love of the game I don't need that shit
From a two bid no good fudge packer whose wacker
Than a two dollar bill
Kill me if I'm mistaken but since day one
An identity is something a mothafucka would kill for
So why hate on what some else has worked an built towards
Who gives a fuck about whose got who
Only thing you should give a fuck about is if I got you

In my sights mothafucka