[Crooked I]
I’m the present and the future
Like Christmas in 2012 I’m the present in the future, an executive producer
You will never get to choose ya destiny cause you a pessimistic loser
Mess with me and I’ll definitely shoot ya
I’ma do’s ya like I’m reppin the Yakuza
Die hard like I’m sexin with Medusa, do somethin nigga
Born thuggin, I don’t fuck with the cock
Nuts hang down my pant leg, balls tucked in my socks
I ain’t gotta act tough to get a couple of props
Little nigga raised hisself, I don’t know what’s up with my pops
Do I think I’m the dopest, in America? I do
Make you switch your whole style like you’re datin Erykah Badu
Pair of Ferragamo shoes, I will stomp you
I’m fucked up, like the relationship between Farrakhan and Jews
I’m spankin this instrumental, like a wrinkly old bitch
I’m whippin the kick and snare, make ‘em pick they own switch
I’m smarter than computers that know how to fix they own glitch
I’ll leave you face down, like chicks who lick they own tits
And from this day forward, Crooked is aging backwards
Gettin younger and fresher, puttin bums under some pressure
Yes sir! Watch the next Slaughterhouse album
Every line is white powder, I ain’t talkin ’bout talcum
I am tighter than “The Biggest Losers” cruisin in a Smart car
Distinguished alkie, the flask on the armoire
I’m from the home of the most popular bomb weed
Most proper, hoes rock with my partners who top seed
Po’ vodka, we gon’ bottle pop in the calm breeze
No copper can stop a COB star – I’m a giant
Dumpin my cigar ashes out on top of the palm trees
Chrome chopper, if I squeeze you drop on the concrete
You wanna talk about the paper? Oh let’s do it
Batter pocket syndrome, the money we gon’ abuse it
Still gettin out-of-town paper so don’t confuse it
Tell the hip-hop cops nah, it’s only music
And haters steady eavesdroppin on “The Bar Exam”
Probably in your trunk now dependin on what car I ram