Lyrics : John Jackson/Jason Phillips/Charles Dumazer/Glen Jones
Music : John Jackson/Jason Phillips/Charles Dumazer/Glen Jones
Time to put in work, we all got a job to do
I light a joint, then ask myself "What would Pablo do?"
Coming through with the paper plates like the barbecue
Got the haters shaking heads like the bobbles do
Yeah, but it's all for my family
The goal wasn't live middle class and buy Camrys
I want us all to eat, even if from my pantry
I guess I'm just more soul food than eye candy
I feel like these young niggas need more eye jammies
More passport stamps, less trips to Miami
Yeah bro, we all need a little culture
A little time away from bird ass niggas and vultures
I tell you what you need to hear and not try to insult you
I'm too old to kid you, I gotta adult you
Listen, the shit is getting outta hand
Like fumbles in football, I humbly put y'all
In y'all ****ing place, that's my OCD
I give a **** a little bit, but it's mostly D
I be in the Rolls Royce knocking Ghost CD
That's Supreme Clientele, all I know is Buy and Sell
We had to hustle to eat, it wasn't no Thanksgiving
Pour out a little liquor for homies that ain't living
It's big dinner shit, baby, everybody up in here
Find what you bring to the table
Then pull up a chair, yeah...
You see?
Without hope, it ain't nothing
HA-HAAAEEH!
I like this shit!
You should love it!
(Kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!)
Uh, let's finish the game, Billy
Do something and stop stalling, that's silly (haha)
The ball over there just drawling, that's Philly (woo!)
Invisible set, F class, that's chilly (mmm)
Life is short, death's fast, that's illy (yep)
When ya whole crew got cash, that's willy (uh)
To everybody living it up, you gotta feel me (yep)
And nah, I ain't giving it up, you gotta kill me (uh)
Whoever you look up to, ask 'em, I'm a real G
As far as this rap shit go, I got realty
Before being signed to a major, I had a real key
And I ain't tryna play you, I'm tryna give you the real me
Almost twenty years in the game, and I'm still me
Niggas fear hearing my name, I got skills, B
The boy, the girl, the shit, I got pills, B
How many other owners you know that's in the field, B (who?)
No license or registration, that's what it still be
Honor's in your pocket, your heart
That's where the will be (yes)
From the hood, cop out, even if not guilty
Rich ain't good enough, nigga, I'm not filthy
I'm hardcore, rough and rugged, I'm not silky
Guns under mattress, money is where the quilt be
(POOF!) This is the last supper here
Last time we break bread, so pull up a chair, yeah...