| Y’all coward niggas make a nigga like me laugh
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| What the fuck yea, yea chargin' y’all niggas
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| Yea, yea behold the only thing greater than yourself
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| I’ll slash ya grill, don’t start me
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| You’ll be the only entertainer with less groupies than Biz Markie
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| I’m never dull, Chino the pretty thug, style centerfold
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| I’ll have every Latin in the country aimin' at ya skull
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| I’ll aim it at the Pope if he claimin' he sellin' the most dope
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| My Jersey blocks is locked tighter than prisoners hold soap
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| And listeners where we vote out ya CD and vinyl, the final result
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| Yell, fuck tricks and smoke, till our vocals combine with a Colt
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| They playi’n this in every club, whip, party and bar you in
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| Give you more blood clots than two Jamaicans arguin'
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| Sweat till ya fake silver platinum chains is tarnishin'
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| Women shakin' they ovaries, look what we accomplishin', what
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| We got better lyrics than you got (what you got)
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| We got better bitches than you got (what you got)
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| We run with more killas than you got (what you got)
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| We got better whips than you got (what you got)
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| We got better cribs than you got (what you got)
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| We got better bitches than you got (what you got)
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| We run with more killas than you got (what you got)
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| We got better lyrics than you got (what you got)
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| Coming to kill me, I can’t hear that
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| Fear is a stimulus I haven’t been programmed to feel yet
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| Snatch you outta your Roots like I’m from Illadelph
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| What I do to push your hairline back, Rogaine won’t help
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| My Quest for the Wealth, like Stone Cold Austin’s quest for the belt
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| I mention myself as a celestial cell, an extension of hell
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| At a lynching I smile, cut myself down, murder your guest list
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| My style never a drag like they do black men in Texas
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| Next rapper to mention this, I’mma show them the real threat
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| Cause I’mma ride till my daughters like «Daddy are we there yet»
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| Ain’t no priest in the streets, only drugs before miracles
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| See more keys than a lot of Hammer’s repossessed vehicles
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| Told you I was coming, you ain’t believe I’m assumin'
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| If we all super heroes, these bitch niggas must be Wonder Women
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| Fist to fist, skin to skin, I make you fall flat
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| Brat little niggas, the tat on my shoulder cover they whole back
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| Can’t hold back, splatter they whole rap to match my ((?))
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| Shittin' on MC’s, wipin' my ass on they notebooks
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| How the broke crooks in videos leave me stressed
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| I’ll turn on channel 2 if I wanna CBS, bitch
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| Least but not last, I’ll blast an informant
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| Until he has the cash to put end to his torment
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| Now shine up the brass for his coffin
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| I’m last of the rawest, my passion ain’t dormant
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| I’ve mastered the forces, I rap to the chorus
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| My cast is enormous, I’m fast and I’m cautious
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| Twenty inch arms stronger than forklifts
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| Smoke hash in front of reporters till I choke and they nauseous
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| And smash through the glass of your Porsche’s
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| Show you how Newark is as hard as divorces
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| Lay you out dead in the grass on the forest
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| My craft is flawless, have ya flesh wrapped in a blackened sausage
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| Blood Splashed across it for rhymin' like a fag in a cordless
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| Murder all witnesses, nosey, standing on porches
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| Like torches, super human, Chino’s skin never scorches
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| Drape your family reunion in black funeral mourners
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| Have cats that sell ya drugs for you, avoid usual corners
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| I never lost this mad lust to be rap’s Colossus
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| Breakin' companies, Jersey got women strapped inside they office
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| I got. |
| DJ Supporters and women makin' sex offers
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| I got. |
| A crib like a fortress, tuition for all my daughters
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| I got. |
| Rhymes hot like sauna’s, and thousands from Time Warner
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| I got. |
| Killas on every corner, surrounded by Jewish lawyers
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| What what what. |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song What You Got? , by - Chino XL. Song from the album I Told You So, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп