Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Stack It to the Ceiling , by - E-40. Release date: 24.11.2016
Song language: English
Stack It to the Ceiling |
| Ever since I woke up this morning, I’ve been on |
| Twist the cap up off my weed jar, and smoked a cone |
| Took a shower and got gone in the wind, like Steve Wynn |
| I’m from the streets of California where we be hustlin and grittin' |
| Gettin' that women, mobbin' and mackin', droppin' and stackin' |
| Wheelin' and dealin' and makin' a killin' trying to hit a million |
| Perkin' and illin' and drinkin' and chillin' in front of the apartment building |
| Packin' and totin' and toast the lean oh what a feelin' |
| He’s a fraudulent, I’m immaculate |
| He a simp, he a sap, he irrelevant |
| I’m a boss, I’m a factor, I’m a hundred percent |
| I’m a hustler like Larry Flynt |
| Getting money’s my habit, I stay in the traffic |
| Papered up like a tablet, my bankroll is massive |
| If I walked in a loser, mayne I’m gonna walk out a winner |
| I ball like a hooper man, papered up like a printer |
| I ain’t wrapped too tight, I’m touched, I’m throwed |
| Mental health, argue with my conscience cursin' out myself |
| My psychologist got a psychologist, neurologist too |
| I’m one of one, I’m not like you |
| Act like you know |
| Dippin' and bobbin' and weavin' |
| In and out of traffic, from the morning to the evening |
| Trying to get my paper right, my nigga |
| Stack it to the ceiling |
| Drinking and blowing on some good bud |
| Smokin' on a strain you never heard of |
| Exclusive shit, I got it from my plugs |
| You drop my weed on my rug |
| That’s twenty pushups, that’s a party foul |
| You can do 'em later or do 'em now |
| I don’t allow (who?) |
| Aliens around me, that’s a no-no |
| They’ll try to sneak me and turn my brains into adobo |
| Rarely see me solo, if you do I’m not |
| Best believe E-40 with his .45 Glock |
| I’m ADHD, need something to calm my nerves |
| You libel to find me at my kid’s teacher’s meeting smellin' like herb |
| I stay plastered, but I’m all about my paper |
| Liquor aroma, that’s me in the elevator |
| More whips than Auto Trader, that’s what I got |
| Driveway, looks like a car lot |
| My bite is stronger than my bark |
| Thought you thought, heart |
| Bitch you full of shit like a dog park |
| Mark ass poodle, square as a cubicle |
| Weirdo, unusual |
| Why do suckas, be all in a real one’s business? |
| While these sideline niggas be always trying to count a hustler’s chizznips |
| Flappin' their lizznips like some bitches, man they saps |
| Dudes be running their mouth like that, we call 'em quack-quacks |
| That’s how a bitch gets smack-smacked |
| Shot in the naps, clapped |
| Head put on flap, Fix-a-Flat can’t even bring 'em back (bitch) |
| Act like you know |
| Dippin' and bobbin and weavin' |
| In and out of traffic, from the morning to the evening |
| Trying to get my paper right, my nigga |
| Stack it to the ceiling |
| …to the ceiling |