c.f.w.u. - cam'ron lyrics
feat. jim jones, h-ll rell
(verse: cam’ron)
yo, i had a dream high 6, said killah
yo, killah, you put the real in rap
and a star, man a star, he be stealin’ that
and those n-gg-s uptown, we gon’ be feelin’ that
but with that deepsh-t sh-t, you gon’ be feelin’ that
f-ck the schools, jumped in and pushed the ceiling back
and if it tires like the orange, i was peelin’ that
pardon my absence, i was spendin’ too much time
in the aspens, killin’ ’em off with -ss spray
i ain’t talkin’ snoops when i say skeet up
and this movie money got me with my feet up
percentage do come in, i should name it the re-up
we up, tv-e, no-one can defeat me
shawn, that n-gg- money made
the weather don’t matter, i fly to a sunny day
i backed out fact, man, who wanna come and play?
you ain’t got to run away, british, go put the gun yo waist
(verse: jim jones)
i’m gone, i smoke spliff, sold my lungs
just lookin’ in the fons with more clicks than saloons
cool sh-t, wasteline, full clip them off
finish with the judges, with tha’ bullsh-t they on
we started gifts with a train, dealt with part of the team
in 98′ killa went platinum, then broke jaws for the team
them big stupid old mansions, ain’t nuttin’ change but the mansions
i’m still in the cut with a bad b-tch lettin’ that champagne spill while i’m dancing
the all by just text me, said the lord’s always gon’ bless me
i pray you, i got the gun on me, if a n-gg- eva try to scratch me
i still kill for killas, make one call for my dealer
in a hall of war, in the summertime we still do four wheelers
rich proter, brick orders one n-gg- won six quarters
still f-ck on that white girl but i’m gettin’ money with that b-tch daughter (hey, molly)
brenda had a baby, when i had mercedes
i’m a serial killa, just might stab yo lady
(verse: h-ll rell)
cam certified me on day one, i shot a n-gg- on day two
bought a benz on day three, see why these n-gg-s hatin’ me?
i’m mr. rooga, i’m still as the shooter, baby
we both got a mac, but he’s a computer
got yo sh-t in the stupor, put yo b-tch in the rooba
she came back with a ten, i sent her back to her man
he lookin’ for me in the club, i’m in the back bustin’ champ’
30 wracks in my hair, clap you and yo man
b-tch, spread the word, go tell ’em we dippin’ again
shout out to plugs, no name, but he settlin’ in
ride around, drop rarri, colors cinnamon temps
shootah got glock, n-gg- sneeze and the n-gg- abyss
every time i pull up i look like a brick-a cooker
yo bm in my dm talkin’ bout when we gon’ hook up
somebody slipped her a pill, she on the bad back
straight shotta, killa hunt n-gg-s like a mad max
yeah!
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