Shoulda never put me on this beat Okay, yeah, normal baller We back on tizzy, on top Jump Off, Dub B, Jersey Stand up GO!
Jump off you rap guys is a joke I'm here to take the scoring title without the green light from my coach Man, don't make me have to smack your lineup I'm Michael Jordan y'all Harold Minor's that rap vagina All black ski mask, gloves, tuck the thing Drive slow, lights out like "I love this game" I live this y'all paint that pic And like Magic I'm starting to believe y'all dudes ain't that sick Might see ya boy scooping up a bird to get knowledge Number one draft pick and I skipped college Snakes in the trenches I peep those, get injured End up like Grant Hill on the bench in your street clothes Talk about he real, how he quick with a glock But like Kurt Thomas he ain't good for shit on the block See the gleam from the shoes Man, I don't mean to seem rude Gunshots do you like Vancouver make your team move (Let's Go!)
[Chorus:] It's gone be the NBA never NBC (Yeah) Rookie of the year slash MVP (Rap suckas, we back) Never channel 4 We handle the 4 It's the number one draft pick (Yours truly) Let your gat spit, nigga [Repeat]
Can't treat me like a sucka Gather up your five, man meet me at the Rucker Put the heat to you fuckers Half Man-Half Amazing with a clip in my boot My 4-5 will make you "Skip To My Lou", think about it Understand when I was younger I was all on my own So when I said 3-2 I wasn't calling a zone Nice truck, nice house and chain I car jacked you like Shaq shooting a three man get outta your Range This is regular hood shit I put Don Cheaney under the arm and show him how to make a good nick If you wack, you need to probably write Either that or quit it, throw in the chair like you Bobby Knight I work damn hard But don't think I can't rob Can't pitch, I still handle the rock like Shammgod Still hurt you cowards Still see me merking them Prowlers And know they still call me Dirk in Dallas I'm that nigga
[Chorus]
Man I kill lame queers It still ain't clear Never saving the tech like Bill Laimbeer I got tools for rilly With shells that make your temple hot and I ain't talking 'bout a school in Philly I ain't a selfish player Man, I help your weight up Cuz only Riders in this game now is myself and Isaiah Listen, you gettin dissed While I'm screwing these miss's I'm on cruise control you still moving your pivot But I'll show you how mean this crook be You and your dogs' like the Houston Comets, a team fulla pussy's Creep It ain't a game no more, it's a sport If you ain't got heart to play then stay off the court
[Chorus]
Game over!Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
