Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Get Your Paper , by - Master P. Song from the album MP Da Last Don, in the genre ПопRelease date: 31.12.1997
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Priority
Song language: English
Get Your Paper |
| E-40: Oooo! |
| Huh? |
| P what’s up boy? |
| MP: What’s up 40 boy? |
| E-40: Talk to me weepilation. |
| MP: Dey don’t know we been doin' dis. |
| E-40: Last Deezy, Last Don. |
| MP: Bay Area playa nigga. |
| E-40: This E-Feezy Fonzareezy, your weepilation up out the Yea Area all day |
| er’ytime. |
| Like dis here. |
| Element of Surprise. |
| Da Last Don, Charlie Hustle. |
| Check it out. |
| Let it be writ and said, done and published |
| That on the sixth month of June 1998 |
| E-40 Fonzarellie AKA Charlie Hustleezy |
| And my Third Ward weepilation |
| From the No Limit Records Headquarters and congregation |
| Plugged up and did a rumble together without no hesitation and erased |
| Any Old School classic memories of Northern California |
| Godzilla ballin' and Bay stranglin' and hustlin' |
| Morning, night, day in N’Orleans |
| And dang near fallin' asleep on the freeway |
| Bobbin' and weavin' and ditchin' and dodgin' po-po, penelope force |
| Tryin' to convince ‘em that me and the dope game wasn’t gettin along any how |
| We had been went our separate ways |
| Shit, we been had a divorce |
| In and out of court, betta yet |
| Neva was married any how and engaged |
| Pushed in the game at a young age, trapped in a ghetto cage |
| Went from hardly any to, uh, plenty of cash |
| To, uh, high speed chases to, uh, makin' a dash |
| «Uh, excuse me sir can I have your autograph |
| And, uh, when your new album droppin' fool |
| That other shit was cool» |
| Get your money man, get your paper |
| Get your paper man, get your money |
| Get your fettie or your scratch, get your skrill |
| Get your revvies man, get paid |
| Get your mail man, get your marbles |
| Get your marbles man, get your mail |
| Get your grits, get your chettah, get your chips |
| Get your snaps man, get paid |
| Mater P: |
| Ughhh! |
| Ball wit da real, hang wit da G’s |
| Started from Richmond, California to New Orleans |
| Game won’t change, these niggas can’t fade me Mama still pray for baby |
| Ghetto got me sick, dope fiends and crack heads |
| Niggas on da front porch wit' tech nines and «lemon heads» |
| And all I want be is a soldier |
| Cause I’m tired of runnin' from da rollas |
| Jumped in da rap game and now dey can’t hold us Ghetto millionaires and still blowin' doja |
| Keep my composure when times hectic |
| Now I own a house in California, Orlando, and Texas |
| And still run wit' the thug niggas |
| And made tapes for bitches and drug dealas |
| And push 600 wit' a bulletproof |
| The ghetto Bill Gates |
| The only president wit' a gold tooth |
| Uh, n-neva let your guards down |
| Always play defense neva offense |
| Cause suckas a try to make your kindness for weakness |
| And damn sho' try to shake your hand up unda falsified pretenses |
| Sequence this |
| Paint a portrait of these next events |
| See if you can predict what I was about to say |
| Within the next couple of sentences |
| Technically impossible |
| To hard to call |
| See right when he thought I was gone throw a slider |
| I threw him a knuckle ball |
| Back against the wall, knockin' niggas out (knockin' niggas out) |
| Hemmed up in da corner nigga thats what I’m about |
| Master P: |
| Feel my pain, sometimes I feel trapped |
| Nigga tired of hangin' in the ghetto takin' food stamps |
| Cause this street life got me crazy |
| But I hustle cause I gotta feed a baby |
| And only God can take me And ain’t no nigga in this hood gone play me So when I ball I’m a ball ‘til I fizall |
| And when I’m gone put my name on the wizall |