Songtext Crook 'n porter Crooked I

Crook 'n porter

Dominick Senior let me tell you what the man’s about
I don’t dress weird and talk funny to stand out
You pushin quarters, petty hustlers get ran out
Put that quarter back in your pocket unless you Dan Fouts
True vision, I ride around on a food mission
Don’t get in the way of nutrition, my dude listen
The tool’s hidden, yeah I keep that wig splitter under my gat like a beautician with a tooth missing
Green pieces of paper, weed trees from Jamaica
16 Bars, 16 keys and a scraper
These are the things that a street G see when he made ya
Tell the chef [...] in my gator
I kick a flow off the loud, then I flow off the dome just to throw off the crowd
A nigga in his 30's ain’t no Mohawks allowed
Catch a ho off my smile
A gorilla lookin’ nigga eating a banana in my Range Rover
Them snowbunnies smelling pheromones from a lane over
Ain’t no I in team, but there’s two “i’s” in Wii
And when we go Black Ops nigga, game over
Kill em all until nothing is left homie
I do this while I’m chillin’ with the cousin of death
Think I’m from Wu-Tang how I’m fuckin’ with Meth
My crew slang, keep that under your breath, we move things
Moving top speed to the top [...], you can not be serious nigga that you can stop me
I don’t do what’s popular, I overlook you like a good view does the city through some new binoculars
You gettin’ money you can mob with us, I’m flashy like a shootout between 2 photographers
Still they call the security when Crook strolled in
I’m really just a deep thinker dressed in wolf’s clothing
I got a pulse but my wrist looks frozen
Fuck with me and death’s door is gettin’ pushed open
Funny how a hater want to stop a nigga’s shine
Make me wanna grab the Glock, cock it, and pop it in his mind
Instead I’mma pour a shot, top it with some lime
I’m sippin’ on vodka strong as Chewbaca in his prime
Thinkin’ God forgive his kind, so opposite of mine
So I’mma hit the grind til I’m the topic of the time
See I’m confident that competition’s hoppin’ into line to fall victim to apocalyptic rhymes
So poppin’ shit is fine, not to my face, say it to my back
Cuz I’m ahead of you whack niggas, blame it on a fact
When your paper get jammed up, blame it on a fax
While I’m in Saks snatchin’ everything hangin’ on the racks
I used to reach out ’til my arm would get tired
I ain’t reachin’ out no more, that offer expired
Matter of fact, this entire song is coffin inspired
Draw then I fire, you fell off, you lost the desire
Caught Alzheimers, forgot the lost art of raw rhymer
G-shot, niggas all kinda small timers
This tune is an open wound to a salt miner
C.O.B we a food good men like Rob Reiner
That’s why them hoes be on us when we with Mr. Porter
Told you we gettin’ head or tail quick as you flip a quarter
Think of the best rappers alive from 5 to number 1
If I ain’t on the bottom then nigga switch the order
Stop the presses, hip-hop ain’t dead but it’s rockin’ dresses
You got the message, from the Apex Predator