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letra de paradise (freestyle) - crooked i

[verse 1: crooked i]
so many rappers claim that they the best breathing
i wonder how many of ’em really believe it
show of hands, i got my arm raised in the booth
y’all only good for raising the roof
i spit for those raised in a roof
the anne frank’s, my spit’s changing the youth
still switch lanes in a coupé
rocking six chains while i get brains
d-ck grazing the tooth
nickname me the truth or rick james b-tch
i put you in christian dior, h-llo
or teach you about christians and moors, oth-llo
you ain’t never been f-cked till you was f-cked by a rebel
welcome to the motherf-cking ghetto
yeah, welcome to the dark side
where rich and poor is the main form of apartheid
they drew a line, tell us to stay on our side
when we cross over then they look at us cross eyed
where any sane man’ll break in half
cut off your water, can’t even take a bath
gotta hit your neighbours and ask the broad to wash up your naked -ss
recycle it to make it last ain’t it sad in the ghetto
we living in a third world country
babies starving well before they can spell hungry
gang banging sons, crack fiend daughters
where the f-ck is maxine walters
i know she care about the ghetto
we rocking hand me down everything
used to have a father but your papi’s now eddie king
shooting up in every vein, heavy man
should’ve pulled out when he made you with your momma
but instead he said he came
left you starving, so poor it’s appalling
new orleans sausage and crawfish is calling your name
i grew up where the soft’ll get lost in
hard n-ggas die, arms crossed in the coffin, the ghetto
now let’s get back to some ill sh-t
back on my rapper sh-t cause you don’t like that real sh-t
that real talk, that’s the sh-t that y’all be skipping through
if you’re some sort of rapper, naw homie, i ain’t dissing you
only six lyricists in this industry i listen to
three of ’em is in my crew
i rather talk about the ghetto
where they saying hi to the bad guy
f-ck a drive-by, a walk-by, this’ a stand-by
i stand by ya, gat fire, then i watch the man cry
any motherf-cker that i’m anti can die
this rap game is getting soft on me
everybody is a baller it’s all phony
saw tony montana now you a boss homie?
saw corleone now your chrome’ll let off on me
y’all only fooling your fans
photo shoot, got a tool in your hands
99% of your music is for losers to dance
i tell a dude in advance
when i got a ruger i shoot at ya
confusing the toilet stool for your pants
kidnap ya and make some stupid demands
like go get us some cognac xo but do it in france
n-gga i’m from the ghetto
they caught me slipping and they stomped me out
30 minutes later i’m shooting your aunty house
o.g.’s on my iphone to calm me down
embalming fluid dipping cigarettes in bobby brown
waterboy gee say bobby boucher
i’m on your head like that boss but under your toupee
infra red beams equal the black rose bouquet
every gun got lasers, shout out to lupe
you n-ggas thought that i was gone, dead, forgot about
till i popped up at the 50 fest with slaughterhouse
till the red bull mc battle when shady brought us out
now when i yell ssuutt ssuutt the crowd gotta shout
c.o.b
#okbye

- crooked i

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