Crybaby

I was born in 71' in Kansas City, MO My momma was a heavenly one, so the fam was pretty slow When it came to rap and R&B and plenty more Check it, if it wasn't on gospel, apostle Or written in the Bible, then it go So when they tell the baby don't do something then I end up doing it anyway Like, don't listen to rap, it's the evil music of today But, I really fell in love with the sound that was coming out form the East Coast So we got it and twisted it up a bit, now the industry's having a heatstroke Some say that rap is dead, but when I get the white, black, and red And jump on the tour bus, do fifty eight shows, then I'm back with a big black sack of bread Can't believe that that was said, cause I'm here with a stack of fed And I got it from rap/hip-hop or whatever and I did not have to beg So, here I stand, the mic in hand with my rap attire And I like my fans spending grands cause we got the fire I merchandise like 5 G's every half an hour And you cry like a baby so your mic must be your pacifier [Chorus: Repeat 2X] When I read the magazine, them rapper's sounding like Wah wah wah (Crybaby) When I see them on the TV, them rapper's sounding like Wah wah wah (Whatcha crying bout?) If it's negative, I don't wanna hear it Eliminating player haters with their evil spirits I hear 'em talkin', they mad at Smurf and Souljah Boy They hating big in the magazine, and don't even know the boys I know the ploy, washed up rappers wanna attack people Run up to the car, pull out the mac lethal Man that's a problem with the black people now What ya need to know is that, in the world there's a lot of dough to stack And the ones that wanna hold us back ain't been outside they cul-de-sac Every nigga I know is strapped, rip shows that'll blow ya back But notice that, I can put it right down to where the shoulders at Hating on the south? Why? Trippin' off them chips they got You don't like that it's screwed and chopped But you wanna get off in they pot Wanna be MC you talk a lot, up in the spot and you hot 'Cause they eighty fours be poking out What the hell is you cryin' bout? Everybody wanna be killa but not for reala Bout the method of making money you gotta get the milla By doin' it like I do it do the work and believe in it When you do it to the fullest ain't no problem achieving it When I was broke, homie I went for mills Got on the mic with the intent to kill Stronger than ever, and you a gimp for real I drink Caribou Lou, and you drink Enfamil, chump [Chorus:] You should be clapping when folk make it up outta the ghetto Or trailer park, it don't matter even if he black or if he guerro But, you don't know how to be male Instead of a Timberland, you probably in a stiletto Better yet in a baby shoe, jealous or maybe you Sick of me cause I'm making dinero And you don't wanna get clapped at You want a standing ovation? I thought not! You say you better than rappers on radio, man that's false chop Try to run up on me, 'cause a benzo will never be in your car slot Try to step up on the scene, my infra-red beam's right at your soft spot If you was on TV and balling you wouldn't groan and trip He'd keep hatred, envy, and bloodshed on his lip Tech got long cream with chrome things on his whip ?? with a chrome thing on his hip But just know your hip will not stop the hop 'Cause when you look at the big picture, my block pops a lot daily So keep on thinking my clock stops the shots And I can quickly bury you in your Osh Kosh B'Gosh, baby [Chorus:]