Lyrics When The Clock Ticks (feat. J. Sands) - Jazz Liberatorz

When The Clock Ticks (feat. J. Sands)

I told J. Flint, these rhymes can pay rent
Need to holler 'bout some dollars cause mine yo they spent
Gas, light, electric, and condo fee got me stressed kid
They call me on the phone, he’s not home can I take a message?
Dodgein, dropped a half a grand on my lodge and
Sprint to sprint went right upside my noggin
Thinkin 'bout robbin', maybe gettin' a job and
Employee of the year at Baskin Robin’s
Livin' life, you know what cost to be in it
Some leave early, you just start now you finished
Paid the highest tax, enough cheese to buy a rack
Not to floss with that, tryna cop the flyer gats
Man two bucks a gallon got my pockets cold wilin'
I’d rather just stay at the crib creatin' styles and
New hot shit like Chinese food chop sticks
Cause when the clock ticks
I need a profit
Yo, When the clock ticks
I need a profit
I take a pull from the leaf like the Indian chief
Hop in the whip full clip just to defend me in streets
And that’s a shame but the lames got the game all changed
Draw aim and bust that thing for small fame
On the news arraign
One life took, one life booked
Now two niggas will never see the sunlight look
That’s half the cats around my way, whole generation sway
On some Willie Lynch shit but happenin' today
I was rappin to my rays about how whitey’s a trip
Think life is only what society grips
Man my niggas slang dope to dank, coke, and sherm
Makin' all type of dollars with no tax return
I wish the wack would learn, Instead of frontin' like they know it
You wanna impress me, drop a track I can flow with, and roll up
Jazz Lib, the cold crush with, chika chika, J. Sands no man can hold us
Yo, When the clock ticks
I need a profit
Yo I was blessed, never had to run in the streets
Growin' up slingin' sheets with a gun in my fleece
See in my hood family’s deep, always somethin' to eat
But not a cookout everyday, straight a month and a week
Ridin' down Federal, how it’s changed incredible
Cleaned out, fiend out, things out, you better move
Them the kids by the alpine, shout out to crowd tryin'
To murk your cast with the gats heard the loud sign
'93 was the worst year on the earth here, a hundred plus murders
Niggas thinkin' that this turfs theirs, ridin' for it
The white man own it, they dyin' for it, another way god sakes
Momma’s cryin' for it, now youngins on the same trip
You wasn’t allowed off your porch now you gang bang sick
Talkin' all that hot shit, man you got the plot flipped
Just because I called you cuz don’t mean I walk crip
Yo, When the clock ticks
I need a profit