DJ Haze, The Game - Baggage Claim

Текст песни

I be down in lil Haiti, bagin a lil weezy and a lil baby
In a drop top Mercedes, I’m not what your used to
I’m a lil koo-koo, I’ll put this 9 on your head like a fucking bluetooth
And let the smoke from the Benz exhaust blend with
The smoke from the cough cuz that marijuana I’m smoking
Mary J what’s the 411, call guidos people I need 4 more guns
And shoutout to LL for no fucking reason
Cuz he the reason Def Jam was ever breathing
Number one, you niggas can’t fuck with son
Number two, new DJs don’t have a clue
Number three, to ever to be a real MC
You have to go back to '88 and battle Kool G
Then battle Cool Jay with Cool Herp judging
I’m the opposite of the levy in New Orleans, I’m not budging
Niggas talking bout they cars, nigga I got a dozen
You couldn’t see Game if you were Chris Paul cousin
While we talking 'bout cousin, if you was cousin
Then I’ll be blooding, so you still ain’t saying nothing
I’m coming outta customs, on the phone with Busta
Lil duffle bag boys, I’m swimming in trust funds
So trust that its fun, let ms. white scholar (?)
And this white collar touch my ones
Jay got married, whatup b
I wish I could of threw the rice, just like salt to me
And I’m right where I ought to be
Across from Jack Nickolson nigga playoff seats
Whatup Bynum, how’s that playoff …(?)
Next time-out tell Kobe run the play-off me
Cuz I dribbled in hallways all day, did drive-bys in broad day
And I lost a homie in a car chase
Think I’m bullshitting, call Face, call Mase
I’m a ghetto boy nigga i grew up on Scarface
Call Nas, how that Cuban cigar taste
Ask about the homie Suge, I’ll blow the smoke in your face
Now wouldn’t it be gangsta if i knocked out the nigga that hit him
At the club throw up a motherfucking dub
Im an animal around these parts, I’m a cannibal around your heart
Hannibal chewing through cantaloupe
Couldn’t find a doctor I had to make my own antidote
Never detox and I blow it like Barry Manelope
Cali Cronic Purple Haze, twisting up a back wood
Thinking bout when I was running through 50s back woods
In Connecticut my etiquette was gangsta
Damn, I was right there when he dropped «Wanksta»
The good old days, smoking the good old jays
Rocking good old Jays, the nigga proof or the number fours
I like the number nines, them shits were hot in the summertime
Keep playing I’ll put your ass up under mine
The old Jimmy Henchmen, that’s my ratchet game
Welcome to Compton, corners call it baggage claim