[Produced by Mr. Len]
[Verse 1: Jean Grae]
Bank on the best
Who drop it like an Acme anvil
And freeze your chest to leave you breathing ill
How about Jean and a fifth of Nyquil in ya
Grilling my perimeter
Niggas exposed, see who pulls and falls, I ain't feeling ya
Told y'all, I'm proof two-oh-oh
Hotter than the diaphragms of twenty bitches backstage with chlamydia
Snot-nosed punks, I'm that deranged chick
No Range, no whip -- same for all the niggas I hang with
I'm a pen-holding, gold-rocking, 40-swigging nigga
Figure me out, maneuver me, sue me for getting into ya
Sting like another word for the cops
Zen master, classes held on the wax
Your homework is playback
Pro-black and anti-bitch, anti-snitch
Mic cords is whips, trains is fours, fives, and sixes
And no Benz and fuck friends, I'll be the last chick standing
Wait, nah, fuck that -- bring at least one man in
[Hook: Murs]
Say what, nigga?
Speak up, I can't hear you
Look me in my eyes if you feel that I should see you
Still drunk from last night
Buzzing off my last fight
What if I turned around and quickly whipped your ass?
I'd be right
[Verse 2: Jean Grae]
Jean, bench-press strength is a million and five strong
No henchmen, yes-niggas to survive on
Investment figures is little to ride on
No nine-to-five, a nine to get live on
Live onstage like a Shante Roxanne
With men and some rock band
Mosh pits, cocks in hands
I'm a mic addict, type dramatical life
High gramatical status
Non-compatible, non grata
No Prada, no baby father
Out of place like Road Rules insider
Won't spill bottles of vodka
I'm prejudiced, bastard
Rule, kill you with tender service
Eat the food and pass gas in your closed casket
I'll get my ass kicked and talk shit while it's happening
Heard shots, run to the side that niggas clapped in
I been punk, been drunk, been drugged but fuck it
Now I fight back
You could pull the vinyl from your backpack
(Oh right, that's your gat; oh right, I forgot)
[Hook]
[Verse 3: Jean Grae]
My type is wrong, weight is thick
Height depends if I've been stumbling all night long
Write for songs like I'm hyped to hold the mic for throngs
Gather round, rip down stages
Just to prove points
Made minimum wages for joints
And still blaze your boys
Stay poised when I'm flipping on your toy bullshit
No chips, just shit in your face
Hate your moms, take your arms
Make you watch all the rape scenes from Oz
Round of applause when you bound to fall and get tossed
Your high-floss, high gloss and mega high beams
Strange it seems, your daylight still ain't seeing me
New York representative, I told you before
And the only way I like it is raw, no pause
[Verse 1: Jean Grae]
Bank on the best
Who drop it like an Acme anvil
And freeze your chest to leave you breathing ill
How about Jean and a fifth of Nyquil in ya
Grilling my perimeter
Niggas exposed, see who pulls and falls, I ain't feeling ya
Told y'all, I'm proof two-oh-oh
Hotter than the diaphragms of twenty bitches backstage with chlamydia
Snot-nosed punks, I'm that deranged chick
No Range, no whip -- same for all the niggas I hang with
I'm a pen-holding, gold-rocking, 40-swigging nigga
Figure me out, maneuver me, sue me for getting into ya
Sting like another word for the cops
Zen master, classes held on the wax
Your homework is playback
Pro-black and anti-bitch, anti-snitch
Mic cords is whips, trains is fours, fives, and sixes
And no Benz and fuck friends, I'll be the last chick standing
Wait, nah, fuck that -- bring at least one man in
[Hook: Murs]
Say what, nigga?
Speak up, I can't hear you
Look me in my eyes if you feel that I should see you
Still drunk from last night
Buzzing off my last fight
What if I turned around and quickly whipped your ass?
I'd be right
[Verse 2: Jean Grae]
Jean, bench-press strength is a million and five strong
No henchmen, yes-niggas to survive on
Investment figures is little to ride on
No nine-to-five, a nine to get live on
Live onstage like a Shante Roxanne
With men and some rock band
Mosh pits, cocks in hands
I'm a mic addict, type dramatical life
High gramatical status
Non-compatible, non grata
No Prada, no baby father
Out of place like Road Rules insider
Won't spill bottles of vodka
I'm prejudiced, bastard
Rule, kill you with tender service
Eat the food and pass gas in your closed casket
I'll get my ass kicked and talk shit while it's happening
Heard shots, run to the side that niggas clapped in
I been punk, been drunk, been drugged but fuck it
Now I fight back
You could pull the vinyl from your backpack
(Oh right, that's your gat; oh right, I forgot)
[Hook]
[Verse 3: Jean Grae]
My type is wrong, weight is thick
Height depends if I've been stumbling all night long
Write for songs like I'm hyped to hold the mic for throngs
Gather round, rip down stages
Just to prove points
Made minimum wages for joints
And still blaze your boys
Stay poised when I'm flipping on your toy bullshit
No chips, just shit in your face
Hate your moms, take your arms
Make you watch all the rape scenes from Oz
Round of applause when you bound to fall and get tossed
Your high-floss, high gloss and mega high beams
Strange it seems, your daylight still ain't seeing me
New York representative, I told you before
And the only way I like it is raw, no pause
( Mr. Len )
www.ChordsAZ.com