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can't tell me nothing (week 15) - crooked i lyrics

[verse 1: crooked i]
when i’m speaking long beach is still at it
n-ggas get shot in the dome piece like jerome’s niece in illmatic
the rap game is weak, n-ggas real average
still these n-ggas feel that they are real savage
that’s when you motherf-ckers lose me
yeah the new consumers think you the dude cause they never heard kool g
ask him about d.o.c. they say who’s he?
pull the wool over they eyes but never fool me
my brother mad crip, had the chevy on dana danes
in the driveway playing paid in full slanging ‘cane
i was elementary age, baby gangsta in me
when they injected the game in my veins, hustling ain’t a thang
i admired the gs supplying the fiends
acquiring cream, buying guns to fire and squeeze
i was a rider prior to those menace ii society scenes
getting green my desire and dreams
see my team’s more like a regime, we move like a machine
trust and loyalty we take pride in those things
diamond rings so ocean blue you get nauseous
in my hood like klu klux rocking them hot crosses
but the grand dragon can’t see the circle of bosses
i want his head cut off and sent to my office
officer i’m lawless, i’m not with the softness
i told ya’ll n-ggas we piranhas and ya’ll some crawfish
i’m a rottweiler walking and coppers track my paw prints
i don’t defend my life, i’m on offense
i shoot quicker than paul pierce at ya’ll queers
who starting wars? like martin lawrence i’m all ears
when the boss appears gunning, it’s the sum of all fears
i’m so shaka zulu n-ggas swear they saw spears
years of misery that my eyes recorded
created flashbacks and memories, got my mind distorted
and my only therapy is recording rhymes
hoping listers online supported my dope lines i snorted
audio c0ke, let the m-sses abuse it
if i couldn’t spit cl-ssic verses this rapper would lose it
and i’m still in the hood, look at all the gun clappers i cruise with
we roll deeper than my p-ssion or music
yeah i dropped new west, n-gga i told you how i did it
that’s real west coast music, them other n-ggas gimmicks
like rick ross i push it to the limit
the big boss of the west, the smith and wesson make your thoughts hemorrhage
my white tee is pure as god’s number
i ain’t talking baseball when i tell you a-rod’s under
and i swear to god that that rod pop thunder
who’s the hottest on the west you need not wonder
and you n-gga’s is -ss out though you not , plumbers
single after single, it’s gon’ be a hot summer
treacherous got paper, we can buy koch from ya
you gold diggers never seem to drop top hummer
haters saying drop the record, d-mn, matter of fact
they don’t respect street bosses, only platinum plaques
they don’t respect street money, i gotta laugh at that
heheha, matter of fact where the chain-sn-tchers at?
reach for my ice, the back of your head get holes
brap, brap, brain particles somersault through your nose
then the number one gunner running off with your hoes
tell a broad touch her toes, b-tch off with your clothes
real hip hop, that’s what the radio say they play
i like yay baby but won’t you suckers fade away
radio play anything if n-ggas pay they way
the fans say they pray for me to blow, i make they day
and west coast n-ggas, yeah you afraid to torch p-ss
industry got more parasites in it than pork has
but to get more -ss i upgraded my cloudy diamonds
forked over some more cash, changed my necklace forecast
still let the heater rip, your new home could be a ditch
shut the f-ck before you get stuck up like a conceited b-tch
you won’t survive the saliva when my heater spit
like a portrait of malcolm x, this the art of leadership
america’s nightmare, my pistol pointing in the air just like spiked hair
they asked if the n-gga who shot you standing right there
the snitch is like “yeah”
if he live to see the next court date i might care
but the snitch might wear a nice pair of concrete nike airs
water fill your lung pipes i swear
my watch is sunset strip, my necklace times square
you don’t own the number one spot, you got a time share
yeah, n0body own it ’til i’m there

- crooked i lyrics

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