Tonalidad: F# minor
Verse 1
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I
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F
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was
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born in 71' in Kansas City, MO
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My mom ma was a heavenly one,
so the fam was pretty slow
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When it came to rap and
Dm
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R&B and plenty more
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Check it, if it wasn't on gospel,
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apostle
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Or written in the Bible, then it go
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So when they tell the baby don't do
something then I end up doing it anyway
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Like, don't listen to rap,
it's the evil music of today
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But, I really fell in love with the sound that was
Dm
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coming out form the East Coast
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So we got it and twisted it up a bit,
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now the industry's having a heatstroke
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Some say that rap is dead,
but when I get the white, black, and red
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And jump on the tour bus, do fifty eight shows,
then I'm back with a big black sack of bread
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Can't believe that that was said,
F
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cause I'm here with a stack of fed
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And I got it from rap hip- hop
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or whatever
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and I did not have to beg
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So, here I stand,
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the mic in hand with my rap at tire
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And I like my fans spending
grands cause we got the fire
F
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I merchandise like 5 G's
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every half an hour
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An d you cry like a baby so your mic must be
Interlude 1
your pacifier
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[Chorus: Repeat
Verse 2
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When I read the magazine,
them rapper's sounding like
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Wah wah wah (Crybaby)
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When I see them on the TV,
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them rapper's sounding like
Wah wah wah (Whatcha crying
bout?)
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If it's negative,
Verse 3
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I don't wanna hear it
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Eliminating player haters with their evil spirits
Verse 4
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I hear 'em talkin',
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they mad at Smurf and Souljah Boy
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They hating big in the magazine,
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and don't even know the boys
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I know the ploy,
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washed up rappers wanna attack people
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Run up to the car, pull out the mac lethal
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Man that's a problem with
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the black people now
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What ya need to know is that,
in the world there's a lot of dough to stack
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And the ones that wanna hold us back
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ain't been outside they cul- de- sac
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Every nigga I know is strapped,
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rip shows that'll blow ya back
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But notice that, I can put it right down
to where the shoulders at
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Hating on the south? Why? Trippin'
off them chips they got
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You don't like that it's
screwed and chopped
But you wanna get off in they pot
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Wanna be MC you talk a lot,
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up in the spot and you hot
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'Cause they eighty fours be poking out
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What the hell is you cryin' bout?
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Everybody wanna be killa
but not for reala
Bout the method of making money
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you gotta get the milla
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By doin' it like I do it do the work
and believe in it
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When you do it to the fullest ain't
no problem achieving it
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When I was broke, homie I went for mills
Dm
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Got on the mic with the intent to kill
Stronger than ever, and you a gimp for real
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I drink Caribou Lou, and you drink Enfamil, chump
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Interlude 2
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Verse 5
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[Chorus:]
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You
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should be clapping
when folk make it up outta the ghetto
Or trailer park,
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it don't matter even if he black or if he guerro
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But, you don't know how to be male
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Instead of a Timberland,
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you probably in a stiletto
Better yet in a baby shoe,
jealous or maybe you
Sick of me cause I'm making dinero
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And you don't wanna get clapped at
You want a standing
ovation? I thought not!
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You say you better than rappers on radio,
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man that's false chop
Try to run up on me,
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'cause a benzo will never be in your car slot
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Try to step up on the scene,
my infra- red beam's right at your soft spot
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If you was on TV and balling you
wouldn't groan and trip
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He'd keep hatred, envy,
and bloodshed on his lip
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Tech got long cream with chrome
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things on his whip
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?? with a chrome thing on his hip
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But just know your hip will
not stop the hop
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'Cause when you look at the big picture,
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my block pops a lot daily
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So keep on thinking my
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clock stops the shots
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And I can quickly bury you in your Osh Kosh B'Gosh,
baby
Outro 1
[Chorus:]
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