Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Jerseys In The Rafters, artist - Snoop Dogg. Date of issue: 10.02.2022
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Jerseys In The Rafters |
| Ayo, Dogg, what’s happenin' with motherfuckin' hip-hop, man? |
| Give us some lyrics, cuh |
| Some of that real hip-hop, y’know what I’m talkin' about? |
| Boy, you lost it, nigga |
| It was him (Who?) then me (Who?) and no one after |
| So I blaze my trail and wrote my own chapters |
| Stomped down, pterodactical |
| Gangsters stained my new jerseys in the rafters |
| Statisticians, they keep up with it |
| No sleep 'til they get it |
| And watch, they doubt it, they count it |
| So I learned how to dismount it |
| My landin' was perfect, a man with a purpose |
| I learned to resurface, a boss, but no workers |
| While you’re sleepin', I’m lurkin' |
| I’m shifty at fifty, I keep the work and I’m worth it |
| Big Snoop D-O double G, yellow like Uncle D |
| Mellow like R&B, ya bitches keep followin' me |
| I’m right where I oughta be, plottin' my pottery |
| I’m watchin' my calories, rechargin' my batteries |
| A ticket up front? |
| That’s my usual salary |
| They imitatin' my style, shit, I call it flattery |
| I’m here forever, nigga, and that’s just what that’ll be |
| Look it up, hook it up, charge it to the game until you book it up |
| Take a picture, nigga, look at us |
| Hit-Boy and Snoop Dogg in the kitchen, nigga, cookin' up |
| Ayy Dogg, get on the phone with Dre |
| Tell Dre call Interscope |
| Tell 'em niggas run me my shit, or else, nigga |
| The Game’s to be sold, blood, not to be told, blood |
| The chronic gettin' broke down, Backwoods get rolled up, yup |
| Fifty bloods when I showed up |
| West beef, chopper turn niggas into cold cuts |
| Snoop told me «Show love,"but niggas ain’t deserve it |
| I’ma talk my shit like I’m the next rapper murdered |
| with the Peter Pan workin' |
| Hand-to-hand serve 'em right outside of |
| Bullets ain’t got no names, my fully quick to aim |
| I bully niggas for change, I put in to rip the strains |
| Puppet master, got 'em duckin' faster |
| Aftermath, you niggas know it ain’t nothin' after |
| I can’t chill 'til I see a hundred mill' |
| Hope off with PJ in Aruba with a blunt, and chill |
| My old apartments still in action, water the runnin' still |
| And if I can’t kill you, these LA summers will |
| It was him (Who?) then me (Who?) and no one after |
| So I blaze my trail and wrote my own chapters |
| Stomped down, pterodactical |
| Gangsters stained my new jerseys in the rafters |
| Yeah, 2022, Death Row Records, nuff said |