in the booth King of freestyle, I've done it as a youth And I don't know a motherfucker that want it with Juice [Chorus] [Juice speaking] That's real
Black numerous times at start and behind the beat To tell the truth man. Shit, we all grew up in the ghetto Young black males, huh. Those black girls
rain of Conglomerate music It's a new wave, this dominant new shit The game game don't change, just the faces I know 'em on a first name basis [Juice
one Joe, you ain't T-Mac Nigga, don't claim Brooklyn, don't do that When you niggaz come home, we don't want you back This is 312, all pimps in it Fall through, all
Cause I don't heard your little mix down I'm knowing where your vocals at Y'all cats ain't real rappers when the mic is off They got to cut and paste
Shit, you either own them, or you sell them for a bounty Some even do both Or crook it up too, shit all three like Kukoc All this income, and still the
X will give us some hope We all some lost souls, all seeking knowledge bad It's all the same, whether dropouts or college grads And 2001 was timulturous Tith all
Juice, yea, Conglomerate I Rap Like, ah, CHI, Wattup, LA, wattup [Verse 1] Juice, stacking his dough like John Prophet All this catches, macking these
[Spoken word] "I'm feeling like I got to be one of the hottest niggaz in the Chi, for real. I don't get mentions in all the magazines and shit,but all
t blast they ass But I gots more funk for the rulin class Will it ever end, will we ever win, drinkin juice and gin Five-oh gets again, gets off with
Passed off the other thirty five thou, I'm doin' 'em Nigga move shoot 'em, what's that? You roll a five? Twenty or better y'all, I'm taking all side
my foes to eat a dick! I blow spots just like radical groups Give a fuck if your crew sucks I'm draining all of they battery juice To all my niggas
flying high with an Afro blowing in the wind wiping Windex, index finger rolls off the glass then swish through the net jump a Corvette with a triple pirouette but off
a sweet vic killa and Chilla still a gang banga If I up that thang to ya face would you say cold panic from this trigga you was talkin all loud Runnin off
Flyin' high with an Afro blowin' in the wind Wipin' Windex, index finger rolls off the glass Then swish through the net jump a Corvette with a triple pirouette But off
smokes tight You know they said it was all right, all right All right, all right, all right Where you goin' Mr. Holy? All right, all right, all right
