Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Get Your Paper, artist - al-dDate of issue: 24.03.2002
Song language: English
Get Your Paper |
| I’ma tell you, like a nigga told me |
| Money rules everything, around a G |
| You gotta get up get out, get on and get your paper |
| It’s Y2K mayn, no time for you fakers |
| All I ever wanted, was a piece of mind |
| Doing it legal going crazy, trying to deal with 5.25 |
| Minimum wage ain’t the solution, shit I don’t even apply |
| So it ain’t no use for Mr. Ro, to do a suit and a tie |
| I exercise my right, as a real nigga when I mash |
| Fuck friends, cause they don’t pay the rent give me the cash |
| We soldiers and we united for it, chasing the cheddar |
| We arrogant fellas, automatic rain pain baretta |
| But let’s think cause I’ma ride for mine, fuck it I’ll die for mine |
| It ain’t just my mouth, I gotta feed two mo' so fuck it I’ll try for mine |
| Money don’t grow on trees, otherwise I’m similar to an eighth |
| Meanwhile I struggle daily, lights off and the rent late |
| Facing a picture day, Guerilla Maab one deep gotta deal with that |
| Go in the studio and I get paid, mouthpiece I’m real with that |
| Never get it twisted, if it ain’t no work I’ll go for broke |
| Strong arming a motherfucker, inhaling and blow the smoke |
| Who gives a fuck, about these fake ass hoes |
| Niggas be lacking on pimping, I swear I’m in it for the do' |
| Staying on my tippie-toes, mind clicking for the green |
| Got no time for plex so what’s next, on rough sex or wolf cream |
| No to mean G bitch thug life, and I’m married to the game |
| In my sleep I hear my fans, guns is screaming my name |
| Ain’t a damn thang changed, moving quickly for the green |
| Pushing V-12's with screens, sweetly no what I mean |
| Boss hogging ripping up tracks, breaking they backs |
| My nigga Screw yeah he gone, but ain’t no stopping the techs |
| Knock-knock we hit you right back, again and again |
| Until we hit the top ten, six figgas rolling on in |
| Picture that, S.U.C. |
| gon ball like that |
| I’m trying to put down this pen, but I can’t let you make it like that |
| You steady calling out my name, so nigga hear I come |
| Mashing fast like a cheetah, cause you done fucked with the wrong one |
| Painful lessons as an adolescent, made me a man |
| Money and power in my hand, trying to make it expand |
| I went from hobo to POLO, dimes to dollars |
| Diamond cuffs on my wrists, ice matching my collar |
| Follow, why a lot of hard heads and G’s |
| Screaming S.U.C., all about our currency |
| Southside’s where we reside, we ain’t hard to find |
| Catch us sipping and flipping, grain gripping with the top down |
| Showing our ass, counting cash moving fast |
| Diamonds on the dash, kicking in do’s like the task |
| Straight mobbing, ain’t no rags see we dobbing |
| Blowing big, with medication in our noggins |
| Talking shit, on our cellulars |
| Living it up like stars, with diamond bars in our jars |
| Outlaws for life, shaking the FED’s like dice |
| We go-getters not quitters, putting it down for a price cause uh |