Crooked I - The Finale lyrics

[Intro: DJ Skee, Crooked I] For the past year fans have tuned in every single week But all good things must come to an end And after fifty-two weeks this is the finale But we wanted to show that hip hop isn't dead It lives on through its legacy of all its fallen souls This is a tribute to them as we carry on the torch Of what we call hip hop DJ Skee We see you, Aaliyah Yeah, C.O.B., Horseshoe Gang Let's get 'em [Verse 1] I'm in a ruthless coupe because I took the top out Convertible V-12, I call it pulling my twelfth grade drop out Riding through the city of Compton like B.G. Knocc Out Thinking how Eazy made a label all from a rock house Glock in the crotch above the johnson I know Bloods from Bompton, I know Cuz from Compton Speakers bumping that Soulja Slim Seats cobra skin and I'm on some slow motion rims There he goes again, the West Coast is him The fifty-two week in a row flow, don't pretend You don't know, I know N-O it spells no But N-O means New Orleans, I creep low With the nina, motherf** FEMA That's for Katrina, now tell me have you seen a Meaner underground king riding dirty My fo-five keep my rivals nervy In the hood it's a nine to five just trying to survive to thirty Get a nine and a wise attorney Yes dude I advise ya When it comes to heaters keep a couple stashed I try to be positive but I'm a prisoner of my troubled past And for me the key to my freedom is to double cash That and skeet on a bubble a** I keep my knuckles bra**ed I been on one since my uncle pa**ed It's bosses first and s**ers last You might see the tears under mask I got a conscious but the guns'll blast On your buster a** As we proceed It's the coke flow, soon as you snort it your nose bleed Me stop rapping, it's no need Can't stop busting like Keanu Reeves when the n***a was on speed Fully armed, open fire and your dome bleed With my arms wide open indeed but I'm no Creed I don't believe you n***as but I'm so G'ed I could get you touched for no cheese like hoe please I'm so notorious I should know Cease Don't breathe in the beef, ya sneeze, I'm gone squeeze Duct tape your spouse mouth, put your seeds on these All they saw was Dodger hats and white Pro tees Me and these beats are a good mix These are ghetto tales like a** on hood chicks Like 'em when they purebred or they look mixed Like 'em when they push whips and got good tits See I'm freaky like Tah and I'm down for the menage a tweezy Ma treat me like I All I got is hard co*k and a Glock Thanks for the stress relief, it's hard knock on the block I'm from East Long Beach where no one pretended Thank God for your life cause a chrome gun could end it Thinking we won't shoot you in both lungs You wrong as a best rappers list with no Pun intended (Big Pun) Cause dude had stupid flow Most you rappers can't walk and chew Bazooka Joe I was a snot-nose listening to "Super Hoe" With my brother jerkin' a fo', cruising slow Now it's OA Crooked co*ked the Glock Lick shots, that's for Scott La Rock Then I popped the top On the Hennessy and let some drop on the block For all the legends we have not forgot Cause I hate it when you b**h a** rappers don't pay homage For those who paved the way, you could be slayed today Shame on a n***a for trying to run game on a n***a No love, a fame wantin' n***a f** a whole song, I could tell before verse two You in it for the money, lack of sk**s are your first clue I will merc you Even when the tempo switch up I just switch it up in the first two I think I'm harder than the bottom of a church shoe Keep a Desert Eagle cause I know it got a bird's view Ask Brooklyn, the place Dirt McGirt blew They'll tell you I go in like I got a curfew I'm writing lyrical bibles n***a, I'll learn you Like I'm at the pulpit and you sitting in the first pew Dude I get busy or what I'm in the booth tipsy, dizzy as f** My cousin Saucy rolling a big L, lean mixed in his cup He took a sip and start giving it up This is C.O.B., different from you is my whole team No lowriders, just Harley Davidson Road Kings Khakis and Chucks, that was our old thing Now it's Prada sneakers, designer jeans and mo' bling Flamboyant, you can't toy with That boy stay on point, I'm that poignant To a snitch I'm rat poison, that noise get k**ed with mad joy, that's on some Fat Boys sh** Cause I never seen a human beat a box Put him in a coffin as soon as the heater pops Sorry I'm so violent, maybe I need a pops My father figures kept nine millimeter Glocks Straight k**ers, gang bangers and weight dealers Paid n***as since Michael Jackson made Thriller And all I want to do is make a break iller Something I had in common with J Dilla I grew up in the hood where they fight everyday Better be good with your hands like a faith healer Ay will I ever make it out, my city is a slum village They k** over crumbs, us Attila the Huns pillage Yes, blessed to hear one of the realest Yes, I pen sentences while a n***a dodge pen sentences Treat you like an apprentice and show you what the business is Creep with me as we crawl through the hood We was all on the road, me, Spider, Eastwood And my homegirl Left Eye, why do the best die? Same question I ask Bedstuy That's my homegirl, prolific female spitter I graced the cover of double XL with her Never shall forget her, kind of felt bitter The way the media did her But that's another song Left Eye gone, 2Pac gone When Crooked I die, don't cry, carry on Hundred K cashier check in the carry-on Tell 'em I lived my life popping that Don Perignon On the run like Barrion Jones, I carry chrome Cops want me in the cell 'til I'm older than Larry Holmes n***as looking like Larry Holmes, flabby and sick That was my sh**, damn near had me crashing my whip Picture me rolling, still living like a pimp when he's strolling Still lyrics sicker than the sh** in your colon Still gutter like Obama when the n***a was bowling Handle a nine like an hour before ten in the morning Put an intentional hole in your dome Wicked as a non-fictional omen, n***a this is your warning Don't make my chrome thing blow you away It ain't nothing for me to go and lay low in the Bay Get scooped by my down a** hoe in the Yay Mac Dre t-shirt, jeans by Christian Audigier You can tell I'm fresh from far away Bad a** milf got a daughter in Junior High She thirty-something but you can't tell from the human eye She tell me I'm super fly I tell her since I'm dressed to k** if I look in the mirror it's suicide Who am I to decide if you should try suicide or not Crucified by Glock, to survive my block It was stupified, used to ride a lot Drive-by shooters light the spot, human lifes could stop You and I could drop It's do or die, looters get the Ruger pipes to pop Trying to find some nirvana, deal with a lot of drama If you think I'm crazy blame it on Cali drama Know I need to seek peace like the Dali Llama But I'm around more thieves than Ali Baba Mama didn't teach young Crooked how to talk this way Keep guns in my waist, that's why I walk this way And I'm lost today Cause I know how my side cost the JMJ in an awful way Playing Jason Mizell while I'm chasing tizail And shizell toe Adidas, no laces as well I don't want his k**ers taking spaces in jail Naw, rather see them haters' faces in hell I'm raising hell like Jay in '86 C.O.B. is my religion so I'm no atheist But I use beats and rhymes to make crazy hits Are you crazy, b**h? I ain't lazy, I'm fifty-two weeks deep Did it for my people, they ain't pay me ish n***as angry, money can't change me p**y a** rappers yeah you make me sick b**hes chase me, n***as want to waste me Face me, let the .380 rip Test me, I dare ya If you ain't too proud to beg for your life I might spare ya I'll tear ya limb from limb Then make clothes out of your skin, I'm sick enough to wear ya There ya go, back to the mac and the pimpin' The black Cadillac and the limpin' Shaq's in the back and it's packed full of women Attractive with racks and the backs you could swim in I tell them hoes you a profit or a prophet Since you can't tell the future put the profit in my pocket One tried to play me, came up shorter than a hobbit Baby put the brakes on your high heels and stop it When I come up you go down, down, down Treat me like Mossberg and pound, pound, pound Me and DJ Skee, we both get around When we walk in the club, they break it down to the ground Week fifty-two, I'm being all that I can be Grew up in the hood, poverty was all that I could see How could someone possibly block a dream of stopping me I could lose it all and never fall to mediocrity Rolling on them blocks and I see a whole lot of mes Gotta keep it gangsta for life, no apologies [Interlude] No apologies, for being gangsta But I gotta go No apologies n***a (Hip Hop Weekly) Love me or hate me Hip Hop Weekly, fifty-two, we gotta go I love ya'll C.O.B., Circle of Bosses Eastside, Long Beach If nothing else If nothing else This series stand as what Proof Proof that I grab this motherf**in' mic man And T-T-A-U AKA tear that a** up hahahaha Yeah, and you know we can't do it We can't end this sh** without Proof Ya nawmean My Hip Hop Weekly over the last Proof beat Was one of my favorites It's that new Proof sh** here, that unreleased Proof sh** Yeah, I'm so serious with this sh** man I die for this sh** [Verse 2] I'm the feeling you get When you deeply think of dying I'm as real as it get My pain lead to speakers crying Keep an eye on my features Peep the science, you think I'm lying When you think of me, think of Zion lions and sleeping giants And picture petrified MCs quietly creeping by him Think of a G eating beats to keep me from squeezing iron Think of the publicity my series got without spending bread Think about it, hip hop is not dead [Outro] Yeah, Hip Hop Weekly We fifty-two, C.O.B., Circle of Bosses I love everybody who took part in this series We all made history together C.O.B. forever Shouts out to SK, shake, Nema Craig that clap, Brian, Styles, Scott, Peter, Crew, C from Nebraska Ali and the Dynasty online Community Hip Hop Weekly, fifty-two