Real Hip-Hop Shit #3 – Chris Brown

Look look uh, leather jacket, relaxing, these movie scenes I’m acting
These rappers attract some massive play, another bad bitch
Fully smoking locamotive, ni***, f*** a ad-lib
In the club celebrating cause I’m so promoted
Is it a fire? Cause the crowd is smoking
Big Will, she off a pill, rolling
You know a country ni*** hungry, Waffle House? Open
But they too broke to pay their bills, so they free-loading
But it’s cool, sit down
You know that ni*** there? Yell his name Chris Brown
His chain’s so ugly that it makes a bitch frown
I’m serving all these niggas, but who ordered hash browns?
Nigga, I be like, huh yeah I got the check
And I just paid your bills, so yes I want some sex
Hah, but first, can I kiss your neck?
And I’mma work you out, so you ain’t gotta stretch
Hol’ up, let me slow up
Impregnate your beat, I make that bitch blow up
I eat all I can eat until a ni*** throw up
I tell that DJ “Ay, pull up, pull up”
Man, I’m so sick of these lame motherfuck***
A ni*** still shitting on the game, motherfuc***
Old niggas as the word change motherfuck***
Y’all niggas still being the same motherfuc***? Who else, dawg?
Let me go in, and I count more ends
My tints 11, and your friends in my Benz
The engine on that Viper 220
And it’s green in the trunk, but that’s new money
Watch Frank Mueller, my Ruger
Cut that shit fire,I just shot my jeweller
Another hundred racks just to make my chain a cooler
Off that loco, out of my medulla
Wow, I be seeing dead people, dead prezzies my besties
Nigga, we are not equal
How you get the big picture looking from a peephole?
My real niggas in the back, like “He ain’t talking to me though”
I know you mad cause I afford it
TMZ, I’m wiping my ass, so stop recording
Supposedly a singer, can’t do hip-hop
But I just killed this shit, so let the shit rock