| Red slippers, red robe, red kitchen
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| Red stove, red pots, one in the head cocked
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| One the on the feds probe, red stools, red inf
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| Red floor, your all fakers red couch
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| Red crystal red pepper and salt shakers
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| The red room, red curtains, its summer squish
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| Show some respect what you expect thats a hundred inch
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| Telescopes binoculars the feds hate my bynacula
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| From sellin coke im proper docked that means im spectacular
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| They bitin like tyson, worse than that dracular
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| Ya moms buy heroin wit no hands im smackin her
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| Let me make ya plane, since dane to danes I made it rain
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| Now in the strip club the Benjies turn to paper planes
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| I’m Killa, you Andre Miller, got a basic game
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| I told ya bitch to hurry up, we don’t wait for trains
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| I’m Derek Jeter, cause I’m in between the base my mane
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| And thats on Lennox, 7 for 8th ace of kings
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| Silencers on calibers would do it louder bro
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| Sledge hammer, smash his melon im the black galicka
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| You know I dump mine on fake niggas one time
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| Wack bitches, rat snitches, my life’s a punch line
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| I spend a grip in bars, diamonds studded, vicious cars
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| Tha hoes, ask Joe, we audition ours
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| I hope you make the cut, pop ya puss, move ya butt
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| Ruger up, think we from Houston we done screwed her up
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| We pitchin', we pitchin', friction from mission to mission
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| Block to block, ave. |
| to ave., from kitchen to Kitchen
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| We just cookin' baby, we just cookin up
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| We just cookin' up homie, we just cookin' up
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| You don' sold a bottle, huh, I’m twistin ya cap
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| And I’m luxury girl come sit on my lap
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| Her friends like don’t go that shit is a trap
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| They’ll have you trafficn' swallowin, shittin smack
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| They pigeons in fact, how you gonna listen to that
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| You the fliest one in your crew
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| Them bitches is wack
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| Started to smile like you knew this shit was a wrap
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| Her friends was right tho, she gonna be pitchin some crack
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| I’m a true champ, you glance, 4 door, two tramps, fuck my money honey
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| Bring your food stamps, go ahead, you dance
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| A elephant to you ants
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| Chain, Alaska, Bracelet, Nebraska, crib, well disaster
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| 42 plasmas, royal blue laurie, shorty you bastard
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| Only thing I don’t know, what resort we in
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| I tell a bitch «get over here», like Scorpion
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| Cars, order in flavors, you order from avis
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| Come around me why? |
| They know my ora contagious
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| And I’m sorta courageous, plus the kid smart
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| Forget Bizmark, he gonna catch more than them vapors
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| Next door at your neighbors, they said all of you haters
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| Set you up the very moment, I offered 'em paper
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| In the North I’m the Mayor
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| And my kicks, University of Florida
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| Of course they gators |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Cookin' up , by - Cam'Ron. Song from the album Crime Pays, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп