Yung Joc - Don't Play Wit It lyrics

(feat. Big Gee) [Yung Joc] What it is man (sup?) Yung Joc, Block Entertainment Yeah, you wan' know somethin? (What'chu wanna know n***a?) I'ma take this motherf**in time to let y'all n***az know I'm tired of playin games.. I'm tired of playin wit'chu man (Preach on) Y'all n***az comin up short on your money Your re-up sh** ain't right (nope, nope) Your grams off n***a, get that sh** right (Tell 'em shawty) Let me talk to y'all This ain't make believe so why the f** is you playin You better listen close to what the f** I'm sayin Cause really all it takes is a couple grand Like AT&T I reach out and I touch a man Or I can let it go cause it ain't nuttin man But naw it's the principle so f** what you sayin E'ry dollar I want it, e'ry dime I need that So when it's time to break bread gimme no feedback (shhh) Cause you don't want to piss me off And I get to poppin like we poppin Cristal See I cain't help it, that's just how we get down Let off a couple rounds, turn your smile to a frown Yeahhh I know, you think I'm bluffin 'Til I kick the do' and the goons they rush in Lay down on the flo' where you keep the coke in You say "I don't know" then your blood start gushin [Chorus 2X: Yung Joc] I done told your a** once (once) told your a** twice (twice) f**in with my paper, you're f**in wit'cha life (wit'cha life) Don't play with it (blam) don't play with it (blam) Don't play with it (blam) n***a don't play with it (blam) [Big Gee] Here he come once again Mr. Murder Man Smokin on the purple bad, pistol in my other hand f**in with my rubberbands get your a** murdered fast Chop you up and chop ya, then stuff ya in a duffel bag Ride wit'cha in the trunk 'til ya smellin bad Get your daughter after cla**, ride by snatch her a** I know a p**y n***a owe me a couple stack Pop him like he never had, but the n***a holdin back (nah) I ain't trippin now I'm lettin 'em pa**, got that a** So I'm in the good, n***a smokin like a thermostat Flashin hella stacks, pie n***a Pontiac Actin for these hoes with my money, what kinda sh** is that? I ain't feelin that, pay me for my f**in pack E'ry dime off e'ry zone, don't gimme that (nah) See it time for the chrome, go on pull it out Sad Sunday service for the s**er in the parking lot [Chorus] [Yung Joc] Better know the repercussions f**in with my dividends Yeah I got a hitman for the hitmen Leave your baby momma numb and I touch many fans If ye ain't tryin to see it I suggest you start prayin All I'm sayin; don't try to play me like I'm soft Treat you like mosquitoes when I skeet you with that Off That Joc crawl blood, n***a call me Red Cross Leave your wig leakin like you spilled spaghetti sauce [repeat 2X] f**in with my paper - ye ain't right I'ma send them gators - in the middle of the night Let 'em split your tater - in front your wife No one can save ya - put out your lights [Chorus] [voice speaking over Chorus to end] C'mon man That ain't how you do the sh** bruh Out'chea playin with a n***a money and sh** That ain't the sh** to be f**in with It's hard out'chea in these streets n***a f**in people f**in wit'cha n***az rattin and sh** That ain't what's up dawg It's the big dawg Diesel Yung Joc in the building, ya heard me?