Praise the Lord

(It's Whitey. . . and the Likwit) repeats several times Watch me rock these sounds from the Polo Grounds To the Sunset Strip, I'm like an acid trip I'm flashing back on ya, run it up on ya Born in Hempstead L.I., raised in California Mister entrepeneur, I rock the shot that's sure I need a dime plus more, I sip the finely corked I want the cash in hand, and the beats front land And I get loco from Acapulco to Japan Mister Whitey Ford gets terrain explored You perpetrate that Ford, you must be out your gourd It's time make like Greg Nice kid, and praise the lord Keep the faith, smoke your eigth Continue stackin' papers all up in my safe Commence to motivate, assume an altered state And kill your whole wack show like I'm Edgar Alan Poe It's the psychotic thriller, no peckerwood's iller Than this freckled face man with the farmer's tan If I can't bomb on you, I'm bombin' on your man Chorus: Some get the shit, sugar, some get the stains Some get the muscles, baby, some get the brains Some get the powers, love, some get the papers Some catch the vibes and some catch the vapors [Better . . . Praise the Lord . . . Keep, keep the faith (4x)] I say roll to the rock, rock to the roll Whitey Ford brings the devastating mic control Like Darrell McDaniel, a hundred G's annual The tips get clocked baby, the bonds get stocked My style gets rocked just like doors get knocked With legendary status like my name's Lou Brock And my lanzar sounds be shaking the grounds Hunting down crews, like packs of bloodhounds Snatching off crowns and melting 'em down I once was lost, see, but now I'm found Amazing grace, how sweet the sound And when the saints come marchin' in (Keep the faith) I messed the alpine white, classic rapper's delight All these shorties pullin' tools, 'cause they know they can't fight I bang my selections on worldwide connections So get the seven digits baby, never burn your bridges Chorus 2x