Lyrics I Work - La the Darkman

I Work

I’m the black Stephen King, I write my horrors through a pen
Every song from my album, tell how, what and when
I live like an orphan, cuz I didn’t have much
Kill a nigga, put some crack, in a pistol in my clutch
I’m still here today, it’s the American way
Ask Jed and George Bush, see what they say
How they took the presidency, the barrel of a gun
How we took Iraqi oil, with the same one
Analyze that, La the Darkman, play to win
Recently, I shot a nigga that I called a friend
Cuz he was foe, tried to steal some of my blow
Oh well, snakes in the grass, I chopped the head off they ass
Need an instant replay, I make it happen so fast
Til then, I’m getting all this money, fucking all these bunnies
Laugh a little bit, but ain’t a damn thing funny
You dig?
I got kids, and brothers to feed
Not to mention, my life, my bitches and what I need
Three story condos, carbon truck, combos
Bang hammers at niggas like Africans on congos
That’s how my song goes, drugs, money and murder
Check and see if you can handle it, 'fore you take it further, it’s La
I work, I’m real, I shoot, I kill
Pops left, moms had a habit, aunt raised me
Kicked me out of high school, teacher said I was crazy
Then I caught a CCW, didn’t amaze me
Then I caught a tenth and one, they tried to lay me
All through the trial, proves I’m natu-ral
Had lawyer money then, same as I do now
Youngster, it’s all about guns and butter
My first large sum of cash, I took care my mother
Bout her a crib, in the 'burbs, got her out of the gutter
Imagine my stress, cursed at birth, trynna get blessed
Slip infederal indictments, seems to be my hardest test
I’m the best, when it comes to flipping ten to twenty
Twenty to forty, forty to eighty, my shit is gravy
Double my condoms, keep my bitch from having babies
Ain’t that crazy, hell nah, I see the big picture
Baby momma child support, keep a nigga from getting richer
I’m slicker than the average, want something, I grab it
Get money like junkies smoking crack, it’s a habit
Move O’s through traffic, ball like Tim Duncan
Fundimental whips, no chrome, rims or nothing
Everything’s true, getting money up at the scoop
With bitches that party by sniffing a line or two
This ain’t rap, this what I do, like Japanese and kung fu
You understand, yeah?