Lyrics Jackpot - U-God, Jackpot Scotty Wotty

Jackpot

The rip of the jackpot, cheddar cheese stacka
Trip off the black crip, why I’m safe cracka
I have you leapin' like a greenbay packa
Newest sensation off the meat racka
I had to mention it, I knew it would attract her
It was all cool, I was waiting for the after
Book a jackpot, pick your own chapter
Beastin' and feastin' and livin' like a trappa
Shit stay spinnin' like a Mexican gattlin'
Pour the … shit, just a piece of the action
Yeah you know about that Fatal Attraction
Brand new shit that was made for crashin'
The palma lade, the marmalade, that was for maxin'
Knucklehead niggas need John the Baptist
So get it up like ransom
I need play everyday like the National Anthem
You don’t have to like it 'cause it’s good
Oh shit, I’m sittin' in my crib, I’m writing rhymes in the hood
Drunk niggas misundersood
You know them sober mother fuckers better knock on wood
I put it out cause its ample
Them greedy G’s drop dead off the 2 pic sample
And then you grab a whole handful
You run slam up the block… (?) and jackpot pamphlets
And don’t question the answer, my word brain diagnosed like terminal cancer
And people thinkin' I’m a phantom, like I’m all made up like Marilyn Manson
A lil' nigga, you my grandson
Cause if you bite my shit, son, you gon' need a transfer
You know jojo was no dancer
I need play everyday like the National Anthem
So get it up like ransom
I need play everyday like the National Anthem
Camp Callaway on a Billie Holiday
See niggas couldn’t see me Donny Hathaway
They say Wott, them niggas heard you three blocks away
You know I smoke cats like three packs a day
There’s no gizmo, sashmo (?) is armstrong
Break beat, one take, lean on a horn
Scratch my brick and I can get the main ingredient
Slam my door and I be reaching for that Commodore
Everybody wants a good goodie
You know another black teen got buried in a hoodie
Some thought … (?) live in a pink bubble
He said he did it for the team, just stay outta trouble
See Charlie had a parker (?), Reggina rang a bell
I had Anita bakin' cake in the back stairwell
All’s forgiven, welcome to Thanksgivin'
Order me three Bernie Macs, three six-packs of Old Gold
Make sure it’s Nat King Cole
Make sure it’s Nat King Cole
Make sure it’s Nat King Cole
I got the hot shit cookin' on the stove