| Dominick Senior let me tell you what the man’s about
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| I don’t dress weird and talk funny to stand out
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| You pushin quarters, petty hustlers get ran out
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| Put that quarter back in your pocket unless he Dan Fouts
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| True vision, I ride around on a food mission
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| Don’t get in the way of nutrition, my dude listen
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| The tool’s hidden, yeah I keep that wig splitter under my gat like a beautician
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| with a tooth missing
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| Green pieces of paper, weed trees from Jamaica
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| 16 Bars, 16 keys and a scraper
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| These are the things that a street G see when he major
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| Tell the chef at Pappadeaux preseason my gator
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| I kick a flow off the loud, then I flow off the dome just to throw off the crowd
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| A nigga in his 30's ain’t no Mohawks allowed
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| Catch a ho off my smile
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| A gorilla lookin' nigga eating a banana in my Range Rover
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| Them snowbunnies smelling pheromones from a lane over
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| Ain’t no I in team, but it’s two «i's"in Wii
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| And when we go Black Ops nigga, game over
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| Kill em all until nothing is left homie
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| I do this while I’m chillin' with the cousin of death
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| Think I’m from Wu-Tang how I’m fuckin' with Meth
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| My crew slang, keep that under your breath, we move things
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| Moving top speed to the top we, you can not be serious nigga that you can stop
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| me
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| I don’t do what’s popular, I overlook you like a good view does the city
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| through some new binoculars
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| You gettin' money you can mob with us, I’m flashy like a shootout between 2
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| photographers
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| Still they call the security when Crook strolled in
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| I’m really just a deep thinker dressed in wolf’s clothing
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| I got a pulse but my wrist looks frozen
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| Fuck with me and death’s door is gettin' pushed open
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| Funny how a hater want to stop a nigga’s shine
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| Make me wanna grab the Glock, cock it, and pop it in his mind
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| Instead I’mma pour a shot, top it with some lime
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| I’m sippin' on vodka strong as Chewbaca in his prime
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| Thinkin' God forgive, He’s kind, so opposite of mine
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| So I’mma hit the grind til I’m the topic of the time
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| See I’m confident that competition’s hoppin' into line to fall victim to
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| apocalyptic rhymes
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| So poppin' shit is fine, not to my face, say it to my back
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| Cuz I’m ahead of you whack niggas, blame it on a fact
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| When your paper get jammed up, blame it on a fax
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| While I’m in Saks snatchin' everything hangin' on the racks
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| I used to reach out 'til my arm would get tired
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| I ain’t reachin' out no more, that offer expired
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| Matter of fact, this entire song is coffin inspired
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| Draw then I fire, you fell off, you lost the desire
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| Caught Alzheimers, forgot the lost art of the raw rhymer
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| G-shot, niggas all kinda small timers
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| This tune is an open wound to a salt miner
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| C.O.B we A Few Good Men like Rob Reiner
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| That’s why them hoes be on us when we with Mr. Porter
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| Told you we gettin' head or tail quick as you flip a quarter
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| Think of the best rappers alive from 5 to number 1
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| If I ain’t on the bottom then nigga switch the order
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| Stop the presses, hip-hop ain’t dead but it’s rockin' dresses
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| You got the message, from the Apex Predator |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Crook N Porter , by - Crooked I. Song from the album Apex Predator, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп