| Hey
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| One time for ya
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| One time for ya
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| Yeah (CSF, nigga… uh)
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| Uh
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| Yeah
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| It’s that
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| Uh, yeah
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| Feel this shit, uh
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| It’s like, uh
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| It’s like one, two, three and to the four
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| E-Fav, CSF knocking at yo door
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| Ready to get my paper, my fetti, my cheddar
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| Ch-ch-ch-check it, I know you gotta respect it
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| While I deposit this message
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| We clean it up, redirect it, and teach the youth
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| Better beat up the booth
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| Bitch you know I speak truth
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| While you is looking like a collection of Who’s Who
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| Why you looking so confused?
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| Bitch I’m talking 'bout you (you, you, you)
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| But back to the topic, here to fatten up my wallet
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| Have my bank account resembling the encoded doctrine
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| Letters, numbers, zeroes, commas, all of the above
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| On my mama ho, I promise I’mma represent the club
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| (?) Pimping, Baby
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| Stack yo, stack yo, stack yo paypuh
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| I need a blunt to the face, thinking about tomorrow
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| Live for today, fuck drowning in your sorrow
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| Get up, get up, go out and get it nigga
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| Get up, get up, go out and get it nigga
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| Stack yo paypuh, major, baby (x3)
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| Stack it up, stack it up
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| Check
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| Check
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| Look
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| Get it, get it, however you can
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| Before money root us all try to go back if you can
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| Like, like, sometimes I wish I was a kid again
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| Santa better eat these cookies if I leave 'em out for him
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| Mama had us believing in hard working
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| Now my inner child still at large like Harold Berman
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| Gerald, Hey Arnold, Helga
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| Jump shot, street lights, home, Zelda
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| Picture that nappy headed boy watching cartoons
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| When Mama left for work, his heels was on the tube
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| Shoes, Nike Air Flight Huarache
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| Reggie Miller wannabe shooting jumpers like mama watch me
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| Cross over like Tim Hardaway, floater like Tony Parker kid
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| Funny looking Michael Ray jumper got me a scholarship
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| Now my son in Space Jams watching Space Jam
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| Same way I used to look, hoop dreams and rhyme books
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| Divine crook, don’t ask me how I got it
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| The non college prophet with no squalor in his wallet
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| Scheme things solid been grim in the 70s
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| In order for me to get on, I broke a couple felonies
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| Shame that a talent rapping is irrele-v
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| Chevy speed got at me with the crews like Penelope
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| Firearm Wesley, you, you, you want it?
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| Recipe money, more cream then the Nestlé bunny
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| Now who want it
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| Hands up now, its fantastic
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| Dealers still need a deal, P-L-astic
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| The dollar for my thoughts, fuck a penny son
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| Beast in my wrist, Ben 10
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| We get it done, you dip and run
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| Strong as adamantium, captain never Branium
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| This shield is from the stars now I’m cussing like I’m anti sun
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| Bi-atch, bi-atch with the shee-ot, shee-ot
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| Catch Ila, Ila at the e ah ah
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| On the scene, with the «damn, I need some money» look
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| Never duck bills like a platypus, understood (get it)
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| This for my niggas buying shit that could afford it
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| You in your Mom’s crib, but you got them new Jordan’s (lame)
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| I’m buying out the bar, my first check from recording
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| But I’m still broke, so I ball on a budget (you broke nigga)
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| Hoes, cars, weed, amongst things
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| Chains, rings, my stars shine like bling bling
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| Bling out, 'bout to charge fees for freestyles
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| Used to try not see before, but see now
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| Folks telling us the dance get sales down
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| I tell them niggas back they ass up and slow down
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| Y’all been telling lies, I’mma keep shit real
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| If skills pay the bills when Bill Gates will
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| I got the will to write a milli songs with no deal
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| Until the day I post up parked on Maybach wheels
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| I used to daydream at Busch’s going loco
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| Now we got fans in Sudan we going global
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| Play our CD in DC at a go-go
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| West coast LBC in a low-low
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| I heard they even begged departure out in Tokyo
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| Everywhere we go, people love us |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Stack Yo Paypuh , by - Clear Soul Forces. Song from the album Detroit Revolution(S), in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп