Crooked I - Can't Tell Me Nothing (Week 15) lyrics

[Verse 1: Crooked I] When I'm speaking Long Beach is still at it n***as get shot in the dome piece like Jerome's niece in Illmatic The rap game is weak, n***as real average Still these n***as feel that they are real savage That's when you motherf**ers lose me Yeah the new consumers think you the dude cause they never heard Kool G Ask him about D.O.C. they say who's he? Pull the wool over they eyes but never fool me My brother mad Crip, had the Chevy on Dana Danes In the driveway playing Paid In Full slanging 'cane I was elementary age, baby gangsta in me When they injected the game in my veins, hustling ain't a thang I admired the Gs supplying the fiends Acquiring cream, buying guns to fire and squeeze I was a rider prior to those Menace II Society scenes Getting green my desire and dreams See my team's more like a regime, we move like a machine Trust and loyalty we take pride in those things Diamond rings so ocean blue you get nauseous In my hood like Klu Klux rocking them hot crosses But the Grand Dragon can't see the Circle of Bosses I want his head cut off and sent to my office Officer I'm lawless, I'm not with the softness I told ya'll n***as we piranhas and ya'll some crawfish I'm a rottweiler walking and coppers track my paw prints I don't defend my life, I'm on offense I shoot quicker than Paul Pierce at ya'll queers Who starting wars? Like Martin Lawrence I'm all ears When the boss appears gunning, it's the sum of all fears I'm so shaka zulu n***as swear they saw spears Years of misery that my eyes recorded Created flashbacks and memories, got my mind distorted And my only therapy is recording rhymes Hoping listers online supported my dope lines I snorted Audio coke, let the ma**es abuse it If I couldn't spit cla**ic verses this rapper would lose it And I'm still in the hood, look at all the gun clappers I cruise with We roll deeper than my pa**ion or music Yeah I dropped New West, n***a I told you how I did it That's real West Coast music, them other n***as gimmicks Like Rick Ross I push it to the limit The big boss of the west, the Smith and Wesson make your thoughts hemorrhage My white tee is pure as God's number I ain't talking baseball when I tell you A-Rod's under And I swear to God that that rod pop thunder Who's the hottest on the West you need not wonder And you n***a's is a** out though you not , plumbers Single after single, it's gon' be a hot summer Treacherous got paper, we can buy Koch from ya You gold diggers never seem to drop top hummer Haters saying drop the record, damn, matter of fact They don't respect street bosses, only platinum plaques They don't respect street money, I gotta laugh at that Heheha, matter of fact where the chain-snatchers at? Reach for my ice, the back of your head get holes Brap, brap, brain particles somersault through your nose Then the number one gunner running off with your hoes Tell a broad touch her toes, b**h off with your clothes Real hip hop, that's what the radio say they play I like yay baby but won't you s**ers fade away Radio play anything if n***as pay they way The fans say they pray for me to blow, I make they day And West Coast n***as, yeah you afraid to torch pa** Industry got more parasites in it than pork has But to get more a** I upgraded my cloudy diamonds Forked over some more cash, changed my necklace forecast Still let the heater rip, your new home could be a ditch Shut the f** before you get stuck up like a conceited b**h You won't survive the saliva when my heater spit Like a portrait of Malcolm X, this the art of leadership America's nightmare, my pistol pointing in the air just like spiked hair They asked if the n***a who shot you standing right there The snitch is like "yeah" If he live to see the next court date i might care But the snitch might wear a nice pair of concrete Nike Airs Water fill your lung pipes I swear My watch is Sunset Strip, my necklace Times Square You don't own the number one spot, you got a time share Yeah, nobody own it 'til I'm there