Guns And Butter – C-Rayz Walz – letras

Go back upstairs, eat your mac cheese and fishsticksYou not 50, you gon’ die tryin to « Get Rich »I spit sick, my lungs’ disease is from AsiaMy LP’s a « Funcrusher » too, my Fantasia’sRoy Jones, knock opponents and ball tooI’m a MC! (Yo!) What the fuck they call you?!Pussy, my grammar’s truth y’allYou wanna be a player, just to dive for loose ballsDickhead – come out your face, say somethin slickMy lines get all up in your ass, like your uncle’s dickThat chick said you’re a small piece of woodstuck in her fingertip (huh?) Little prick!You ain’t even on my son’s level, he just a little sickThis ain’t really nuttin devil, it’s just a little bitIllegitimate trip through my scenic pathIf I really spit, the kids would hate english classDo the math, my science will blow up your labSlow up your staff, I laugh at your arts and craftsYou ass, smelly socks and jocks, gym trashDrag past those who study honies with drab bagsSon you, have your moms yellin HEY THEY +BAGGED-DAD+Come through, bomb you like schools in IraqDumb dude, in fact you fiction, mouth be spittinRaps collapse your ear where wax’ll stack, listenDrum tap, young cat, old vision, soul glistenGun clap, one track mind, rhyme whole rhythm creatinInstead of waitin, refrain from thought patternsOf your dame givin me crazy brains like horseradish[Chorus]Get those props, follow my lightSpit so hot, last week I had to swallow my iceWe end the year with a token ending, swollen sentenceOff the chain like a stolen pendantGet those props, follow my lightSpit so hot, last week I had to swallow my iceIn the gutter where suckers’ll cut ya, mothers’ll hug yaIt all comes down to guns and butter[C-Rayz Walz]I already seen a mill’/Amil, but you ain’t even heard me yetShe moves well without the +Roc+ like the Jersey NetsYou can’t, get in the game, your position is lameStay on the bench, enjoy the wood you Marc Twain characterI’m holdin back! So I won’t melt the polar capsSo good off the top, my hairline’s growin backI make sense/cents now, I’ll make dollars laterHolla hater, catch a scratch from the Cut CreatorThese is Reebok lines, they supposed to be pumpedAnd get your smoke for free, like promotional bluntsYour style standard, my style is simply candidI don’t jerk off no more, I came empty-handedHoneydip said you spit like you sprayin a clipAnd wipe my mouth off with tissue, I be sayin some shitSo you can stack cracks, clap gats or rapWe where the wild things are, and it’s a fact I maxSubtract the whack, now divide the stacksMultiplied by the feel of the real, and I’m backAnd my DAT contains the masters, so I maintain disasterPolly with NASA, master tracksAnything less than that? I’m bridgin the gapLike African tribes, I got pussy sewed up, it’s a rapBut if it’s that deep, dap me, clap me tooI fear none of you characters, like Scrappy Doo »C’mon, put ’em up! » Make the rumors greaterMy name’s fate, we gon’ meet up, sooner or laterGive you fools +Juelz+, like a Santana verseAnd wreck the beat ’til your bandana burst