Music Video

J Dilla - Jungle Love Feat. MED and Guilty Simpson
Watch J Dilla - Jungle Love Feat. MED and Guilty Simpson on YouTube

Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
James Dewitt Yancey
James Dewitt Yancey
Drum Machine
Byron Simpson
Byron Simpson
Rap
Nick Rodriguez
Nick Rodriguez
Rap
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
James Dewitt Yancey
James Dewitt Yancey
Songwriter
Byron Simpson
Byron Simpson
Songwriter
Nick Rodriguez
Nick Rodriguez
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
James Dewitt Yancey
James Dewitt Yancey
Producer

Lyrics

Guilty Simpson
My **** Med
J Dilla!
Raw shit
Prolific, flow like blow, sniff it
And get zooted, banging that dope music
My mind is set – this year, **** better step it up
I get the job done way before the check is cut
I don't write raps for free (Fuck that)
If I did, I won't make it like Shaq from three
My motto is simple:
"Without that loot, your instrumentals stay instrumentals"
A blind man could see the kid's potential
And take notice, so I grind and stay focused
If I was any hotter, I'd drink straight vodka, spit out flames, and piss lava
That hot, fam, try again
That's why I got hoes like firemen
You could plug 'em up to hydrants
I should push a big red truck with sirens
Got a flow that'll stop beginners
I maul y'all like a shopping center
Every time I yell, I say
"J Detroit I to the L-L-A"
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
With that raw shit
Turn it up loud in your car shit
Finger tips split that cigar shit
Let's smoke, ****!
Holla at your mans, I'll blow with ya
That raw shit
Turn it up loud in your car shit
Finger tips split that cigar shit
Let's smoke, ****!
Holla at your mans, I'll blow with ya
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
J Detroit I to the L-L-A
I bang nothing but that raw shit
Neighbors bang on the wall, pissed from the noise and the blunt scent
With a chick, getting blown like a trumpet
They're wondering how I stand still and still run this
Full stomach, hunger in the eyes, greedy
In your speezy, takin' shit like "****, you don't need these"
Titles and mics, homie, you don't need these
My CD's tight like six **** in a Sea Breeze
I flow so sick and won't sneeze
My set holds traps, with no cheese
Wrap G's, rubberband, one hand, I'll part your gold teeth
J Dilla, my ****, I call him O.G
The street symphony, epitome
The underdogs who grind hard for the victory
Get them weak rhymes outta my face
I clap 16 bars that might catch me a case
I'm back, don't stop 'til my lungs collapse
'Til then close your eyes, ****, imagine that
Written by: Byron Simpson, James Dewitt Yancey, Nick Rodriguez
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