Crooked I - A Capella at SxSW lyrics

I'm about that life, my G My gun'll load I live by another code My desire -- run the globe While you thinking you was born to be the sh** Because you fell out of your mother's other hole Hell motherf**ing no You don't think Crooked I's hot? Why not? Is it cause my Maybach's in your blind spot? I sleep with one eye open like a insomnia-stricken Cyclops Cause I could rest in a pine box I'm on; so many tricks, can't even count 'em So high I probably fall up my stairs 'stead of down 'em So high, call that American Airlines Slaughterhouse, n***as rip sh** e'ery time You not a legend like John Move back, like his embarra**ing hairline Let the heir to this chair shine Throughout ugliness, them Slaughters there with me It's all Lovie Smith, my team bear with me Still I'm feeling like a organ donor n***as dying to get a part of me Like I was born with a rare kidney But come and get me I'll leave you down under somewhere in Sydney Different type of chopper, still airlifting See, my mama named me Dominick That's anonymous with ominous I'm in this game to show you what drama is I'm in this game to conquer it Like Genghis Khan and his monstrous entourage What challenger can dodge my barrage? Look at the duPont Registry, that's my garage Convertible Beamer, paint blacker than Amistad Hear the engine noise I'm blowing with different toys Still I rap like Kool G. when he was spitting "Poison" My pen game is sick, call it penicillin Sky's the limit, this is the flow that can k** a ceiling You guys are gimmicks, so hide your women Crooked's into Virginia, drilling the realest women Feel a villain, I fill em with big pimping Even the virgins I lose a leg, I throw a shoe on my third one Look how easy the words come I'm the West Coast savior Why you think they yelling, "Church" when my verse done Speaking of church, I'm from the city where sinners dwell Said it's the L-B-C, we came to give 'em hell It's judgement day, I'm judging these infidels Sipping Zinfandel, my liquor be off the Richter scale And on this t-h-r-o-n-e I will sit a spell Yeah, that line's sicker than sickle-cell Now n***as know what it is We the Chuck Taylor crew, all bars I mean the Chuck Taylor crew because we all stars You add Eminem, and the hits are the hardest We turn djs to MMA fighters when they mix Marshall artists West Coast, we ain't f**ing with the garbage You ain't f**ing with that Dodger hat, unless your name Mr. Marcus I lift your carca** If you listen to this ill spit in your whip The sh**'ll get you carsick This Long Beach every day, y'all I say free Tray Dee, I say R.I.P. Nate Dogg I'm just a Slaughter rider Waiting for you in the same basement That Biggie Smalls had your daughter tied up Waiting on this snitch's car to ride up He come inside and die I hop in his whip, turn the car to five I mean the car to four I paint any town red, that's the art of war I bust you in any city; this is not a tour I tax you; I'm not an auditor either or But I'm at you -- it ain't no better mobsters We a mix between Tyra Banks and energy drinks Four-headed monster