| We came to get it started
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| We came to act retarded
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| My squad is so damn heartless
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| We gonna rep regardless
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| You just gotta hear me out with this rhyme
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| How it raised in Sin City, where you can get clapped for a dime
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| Running your mouth and snitching, get you clapped with the iron
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| That just leads to more stress, more drama and crying
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| In my hood, everything is a crime
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| I know 8 year olds, with cell phones, crack, vest and a nine
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| On they own, invested in time, call Murda for work
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| Sha let you invest in the dime
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| I’m the bud in the Dolce Gabana, fitted hat
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| Eyeslow still puffing, while I’m gripping the llama
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| Yeah, these niggas don’t want no drama
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| How I got heavy artillery and too much armor
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| Drug kids get smacked and run to your mama
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| Niggas don’t want it, man, I’m quick with the llama
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| Mopping you, you so soft, fit for the drama
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| I’m the period, nigga, you the slash and the comma, yeah
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| That boy, be the type to handle my business
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| Making cowards roll over like cellular minutes
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| If it’s a club, you can tell when we in it |
| In the back wit the mack and the twenty sack, inhaling the spinach
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| D.C.'s one hell of a nigga
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| Cuz you can catch me anytime, anyplace, like a felony, nigga
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| Practice booth, I spit til I crack this booth
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| Crack a smile til I crack your tooth, that’s the truth
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| Why I got D.C. here to carry the torch
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| Put your brains in the bag and let you carry your thoughts
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| And nah, I ain’t your average sport
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| I went form bankrupt to bankroll, four-five-sixes til the bank close
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| Chain block, save the same musician in the same quote
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| Getting cheddar, ducking the same po’s, in plain clothes
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| Tim Brown, little brown brother, let the pound stutter
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| Rounds flooded you clowns, utter the Don say I’m gutter
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| Speak when spoken too, I’m not you
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| Plus you can’t do, what I can do
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| Lose you in thoughts, with all types of source
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| Park Hill, east barricks, holding the fort
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| Teach what is taught, and show support
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| K.J., here to save the day, I relit the torch
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| Hope the competition steps it up
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| Cash Rule, why you think in God we trust?
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| Build your house, while I build my community |
| I rock the emblem upside down, for the mutinity
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| Future of the industry, and you ain’t got to feel me
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| Simile Himalayas, source like Eric B
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| Open sesame, you won’t get the rest of me
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| The street be stressing me to come out immediately
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| So I drop, make it hot on the spot
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| We gon' bump this shit, whether you like it or not
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| This is the Killzone, my nine mil drills through domes
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| And then spins you similar to 26 inch chromes, holmes
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| Your bones is made of foam, your jaws made of glass
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| And your veins pump cherry Kool-Aid, bitch nigga, you ass
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| Bitch tripping the glass table, the weight so enormous
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| Law enforcements study my picture perfect painted portraits
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| Guns are gorgeous, my tongue sharper than a swordfish be
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| Crispy clear, til the airs, the fear factor
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| Ran rapper, heart colder than the continent of Antarctica
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| Dominant when I blam the launcher
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| Son, I’m amped enough to conquer a whole project block
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| Or more longer that’ll dump off in your hardest cops
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| Soon as I let the pump off, the target is marked |
| These pellets scattered in your heart means X marks the spot
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| I got bitches who suck dick like it was National Sperm Day
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| You get murdered in broad day by my ratchet through word play |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Get It Started , by - King Just. Song from the album Wu Music Group presents Pollen: The Swarm, Pt. 3, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп