Lyrics:
V2: Never better than when I'm givin' it large,
On the dancefloor, to the hardcore or the drum 'n' bass.
In your face; we mash up the place,
Tie up your
Magazine, that's me on the cover
My record is clean I could still shoot your brother
Still turning up, I got hits for the summer
They know what I'm
the plague
The living death
Closing his icy grip around the whole planet
Then the rumors started
The last hardcore MC's were working on a cure
That would
you
My balance enables me to square dance in a circle
Your head'll spin so fast you'll catch whiplash
I practice lyrical witchcraft on your bitch
me
CREAM, get the money
Dolla dolla bill y'all, y'all
Of course all the hardcore heads
This one goes out to you
Crank up the volume one time
Peace
with old Eddie Kane?"
Ain't nothin' wrong, so snap your head to the song
Word is bond, you get wrong, I'll have you sing like Louis Armstrong
And I
Stay in your lane and get over
Beep, beep, beep, beep, all of these bags I'm a hoarder
All of this activist, movin' as fast as a tortoise
Been ballin'
with old Eddie Kane?"
Ain't nothin' wrong, so snap your head to the song
Word is bond, you get wrong, I'll have you sing like Louis Armstrong
And I
No matter what the weather, we be getting our cheddar
So we can have a better tomorrow
Oh, money, cars, superstars, getting ours, working hard
For
your boots knocked
Then attack you like a pit that lock shit DOWN
As I come and freaks the sound, hardcore
but giving you more and more, like ding!
Nah
Bits, bits, bits, bits
Come for your bits
Move round the EU, bag a next piece too
Beast who might you, pad is see through
He who been through
rock, you get your boots knocked
Then attack you like a pit that lock shit down
As I come and freaks the sound, hardcore
But giving you more and more,
get big!
Stop the chorus back to your Bentley
Your wife is gone, she's with me
On a first class flight in the Bahamas, grab your bags quickly
theories
Concealed indictments handed to the grand jury
Get some money now, you hated by your own kind
The home invasion done by niggas in your bloodline
theories
Concealed indictments handed to the grand jury
Get some money now, you hated by your own kind
The home invasion done by niggas in your bloodline
Uh (exclusive)
Uh-huh, woo
And I came to bring the pain, hardcore to the brain
Ooh, baby, what's your name? (Huh?)
I love the way you're spittin'
I'm still hardcore gettin mines, like I told ya
I still keep a gun on my waistline, clip in a fat rhyme
Shoot you in the chest with the tec, in
remember Vine
It's nasty
Cash rules everything around me
C.R.E.A.M., get the money
Dolla dolla bill y'all, y'all
Of course all the hardcore heads
of your kids
Tryna' talk himself out of it
But he don't wanna hear
What a mess, look at what you niggas did
Dig a hole, bury yourself
By a jump off
Said, I'm a superstar
On this shit I go so hard
Gotta keep the score
Couple of niggas hit block
Gotta get the bag
We racing need to hit the top
Gotta
the Pac-10,
Bad bitch, Afghanistan,
I ride with some head hunters, go and get that bag then,
Slide like a sled it get slippery, that nigga no kin to me,
Call my
Im just the spare AIR-BAG in your passenger seat,
John Cougar Mellencamps playing loud on repeat,
And every time I open my mouth to sing you turn up
visit's because it would become
The topic of my day and by the
Time we spoke later that day
The argument was so amplified in my head
That I couldn’t wait
know what the game's all about
It's bout feedin the family, not freakin in the Benz
Instead of rentin, pay for that roof on your head
And stop pimpin
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