Lyrics It's Time - Nick Wiz

It's Time

What, what?!?
CDs, kid.
You know the steez
Get cheese, make G’s, and breeze ‘cause this time
Me and my man got the plan to rake shit
Fuck earning respect, son—we got to take it
This rap game’s
Insane.
Last year, niggas didn’t know my name
Crazy.
Now they wanna pop champagne when
Back in the day, couldn’t get a glass of Alize.
Ass-
-out with no pay, stuck around the way
DiBiase won’t stop hip hop ‘til I win
And write dope stories like Iceberg Slim
For years, been rocking Nikes and rocking mics.
Now my BMX
Turn to CBR bike, weekend flights
Come on now.
We’re trying to lock it down like the Wu
Stack G’s like the fool.
Federation is the crew
My spot is sewn.
You’ll get dropped in my zone, which is
718. I’m in and out of every state, got
More Holmes than Larry, stay Dirty like Harry
Shoot and run like Rick Barry.
Emcees?
They talk about a battle, but they ain’t yet ready for war
My squad’s raw, throwing rappers in a figure-four
I figure y’all rap style is inferior
CDs is superior, we ain’t hearing ya
U.G.
stay
Flashing like a cop’s badge, attract shorties like Coach bags
I’m dashing, my blood’s cold like the Aspens
Smash men, the baddest.
My friends, I hold the world up like
Atlas, miraculous raps tackle cliques like
Cops on FOX.
Cheap-shots to your chops like a
LAPD nightstick, I stick like icepicks and rip the
Mic quick.
My right hand, left hand drink-spilling
Rap villain illing, got to make a killing—it's time
Twist rhymes, hit dimes with sun and rubbers
Got mad girls from New York Undercover like Malik
Yoba, blow your Range like a Rover
Never sober, stay twisted like the lips on Rocky Balboa
I told ya: this time, sir, we’re coming thorough
So grab your weapon, bust off, and represent your borough
What, what?!?
CDs, kid.
You know the steez
Get cheese, make G’s, and breeze ‘cause this time
Me and my man got the plan to rake shit
Fuck earning respect, son—we got to take it
A lot of
Niggas on the sidelines ride mines without
Knowing the regulations and the guidelines of hip hop
Long-range, third album banging when it drop
Whether it’s on Loud or not.
You go
Ahead and wreck niggas and sweat triggers.
I’m trying to
Get figures and buy cribs and Vigors.
Gold-
-digger sluts get one nut bust in their face
Or butt, trying to strut for what?
I want
More than free clothes for videos, I’m tired of these
Promo show—that's no dough.
Fuck a ho all week
They’re bums, but, in the club, they act shady
Get your life in shape ‘cause I’m living well, lady
I got all the props that a nigga could want and I
Flex all the styles that a nigga could flaunt.
For flows?
I’m still flipping ‘em.
Emcees?
Still ripping ‘em
One of the best, on a quest like Chip and ‘em
Check this rap
Pro.
My stats show that I’m ferocious
My brain’s haunted like ghost ships, I hold joints like roach clips
My flow hits like heavyweights, so place your wager
I’m major, my shit’s hot like Asia.
Rap mayor
I smash and serve your ass like Arthur Ashe.
You pop
Trash, I’m up in your face like airbags to break your jaw
(*Click*) Get yours wrapped in gauze, son
I sting like BB guns, done done dum-dums, hit
Dumb ones.
No time for «Fakin Jax» like Pete Rock
Built like sheetrock with Tommy sweaters in more colors than
Peacock tails, I’m Fabulous like Moolah
My nigga tried to rob a gas station like Abdullah from
Car Wash. I squash emcees like Sasquatch
In battles, my fans hold me down like shackles
You get tackled by a Rotten Apple resident.
I got bent
The first time off of «Eric B.'s the President»
What, what?!?
CDs, kid.
You know the steez
Get cheese, make G’s, and breeze ‘cause this time
Me and my man got the plan to rake shit
Fuck earning respect, son—we got to take it