[Verse 1: Vic Spencer]
Wore Timbs, not Jodeci boots
[?] hands in coats just to float in the Coupe
Y'all forcing a legend to shoot, blessing to you and yours
Nigga, you still a peasant that's on the edge with the truth, mm
I'm chargin' extra for proof
Go to Proof's D12 grave and praise, braise up the fruit
I'm the guy that get praise on stage and rage like the youth
Sue me, usually I'm rolling up the peggy sue (Bae)
Old ladies call me cute, they past menopause
I don't know what that feel like, so I may touch her walls (Aw, naw bitch)
Shit, I may joke around
I get the work done and blow the pound
I blow downtown (Woo)
Get the tree from Dukester
I'm not a hooper, but I'll shoot ya' lights out
Noawadays, I'm higher than a fuckin' kite now
That's not even bein' sarcastic, battery acid inside ya', Coca Cola classic (Ew)
I know niggas that sell weed from a wheelchair
Get Vic out the globe, I got a whole lotta shit to say
The shit I say go in and out ya' soul
Sometimes it stay there, chill and smoke a few blunts
Go all out for others, but forget what you want (Huh?)
It's a new month
The beginning of the same cycle
Hard ass bars with strange titles, mu'f
[Verse 2: Quelle Chris]
Three pea soup politicking and Ponderosa
Pocket pinching Hebrew OD OG Lou Jack
Villains in top hats, black dusters
Shut it down coast to coast like blockbusters (Shut it down)
Pull up on 'em like we requested dijon mustard
The mac, you don't touch like Solange's naps
Keep it one hundred, keep it loosie out the long pack
In a smoking session, craftin' boogies out of dime sacks
With two fab lookin' hacks
Milk 'em White Zinfandel from a five liter bag
Brown lips (Lips), black lungs (Lungs)
Used to dream 'bout growin' rich, dyin' young
When I'm old, Logan with the scarred paws, reminiscing
Mary J. Blidge, mary jane, high (High)
I should hit ya' top 10 list any day now (Anyday now)
Been here popped since Pearl Jamwas Mookie Blaylock
Got more ready singles than titty bar enthusiasts
Ya' new style's my style from back when yous was baby tooth, the kids
We don't let biters in, [?] the glamour
We werewolves, you wolfless still getting tucked in by mama (Night mom)
Rhyme pattern, king of swing, Pete Sampras (Sampras)
Make dope the blow like pile of dirt made soap
Strange fruit in the blood from the earth womb to the rope
So when yous is out left to cope with you mu'fuckers
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