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作曲 : Bush, CunninLynguists, Eames ...
We flavor the music, chop this screw that
Take you through church in a verse til you view fact
Holy ghost, from the lowly coast, spit humility
Facin critics cold fronts, blockin our humidity
We own rap fo sho as Cognac’ll twist yo dome back
Our tracks? See, they be nappy but you can’t comb that
Call it el natural sound of soul
You ain’t seen these darts or how fast they’ve flown
From, ‘tween these parts and the ones ‘nere known
My slang bang with a twang and hang on earlobes
You hear Natti, hot as Caddies with no steering column on ‘em
With enough lines to dry all the clothes that you own
Since when did the south get pinned in a drought?
Not never been clever since big pens been about
Reachin whateva levels that’ll suspend any doubt
That we as bad as yo kids when this mics to our mouth
I hear 'em talkin 'bout Southern folks can't rhyme
Some of y'all must be out your God damned mind
Yeah, it's about that time, we got that shine
Cause niggas been about them lines
Since when? E'ry since a "Pocket Full of Stones"
Ridin dirty in a Chevy sittin heavy on chrome
Ever since Goodie Mo' had Food for Soul
And them dirty red dawgs done hit the do'
The Mason-Dixon Line, been across ya mind like night-sticks
Rain down on the game and **** it up like white kicks
I might switch, south-paw, knuckle to jaw
If another broke nigga spit about spendin it all
I spit the gems that you splurge to put around neck
So save that to pay back all your loans and debts
A Maybach and a plaque, is that all you get? Shhhit
We struggle to juggle talent with a helluva sales pitch
Standin on southern dirt that helped America get rich
Ye’ ain’t gotta struggle with a shovel to dig this
Cold as no power, after hours in the winter months
Hot though crock-pot flow
So here dinner comes
Walk them shell toes down underground railroads
Niggas fresh outta jail clothes, spittin like hell’s close
And these words ain't slurred, maybe how you listen’s blurred
You ain’t feelin sickness served? muh****a kiss a curb
I hear 'em talkin 'bout Southern folks can't rhyme
Some of y'all must be out your God damned mind
Yeah, it's about that time, we got that shine
Cause niggas been about them lines
Since when? E'ry since a "Pocket Full of Stones"
Ridin dirty in a Chevy sittin heavy on chrome
Ever since Goodie Mo' had Food for Soul
And them dirty red dawgs done hit the do'
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