Burn Rubber

East side, biatch

Yeah, you know abut that

Real players, the real ones

I burn rubber on you quick as hell

You need some toilet paper, don't shit on yourself

When you see me rolling in luxury

I won't fuck with you, so don't fuck with me

I'm just riding, siding, ripping and dipping

I look at all the young hoes stripping

It's no big deal when lil' hotties get hot

But **** get jealous, somebody get shot

You in love, might make you lose your mind

That's why I run these grade girls two at a time

With no discretion, to me, it's so depressing

Acting like you don't know my profession

I look at them thighs, and look at them titties

Take your ass straight on out to Sin City

Wearing all pink just like Hello, Kitty

Bringing back all C-notes and no fifties

Burning rubber on these bitches so fat

Burn rubber as you smash all fast

Tell it like $hort, no ass, no pass

All you Santa Clause players, be on your way

With a bag full of toys on the back of your sleigh

You hit your girl's house one by one

Climb down the chimney and give 'em all something, you trick

Don't come around me fronting

Talking 'bout how you pimping, giving hoes what they wanting

You worse than a studio gangster

Behind closed doors, getting his booty all spanked up

You suckers disrespect the game

All these video hoes, I done spit on your name

You love it when they make that ass clap

But she don't give me no cash, I'll pass it back

I kicked it where she stashed her crack

In the plastic sack when she crashed her 'Lac

Punk bitch

They tryna give the rap game to some real punks

It's like when disco killed the funk

Can't tell me nothing when I know I'm right

Like a bow-legged bitch with a overbite that suck it right

Player, this pimp don't lie

How many pornstars you know that went to Crenshaw High?

A lotta fucking for a whole lotta nothin'

You just wanna be noticed, so you're out there slutting

I never really cared about popular fame

It's all about sitting on top of the game

So don't stop till your panties drop

Fuck the mayor, the preacher and a cop

You better tell him what it cost, get his mind on track

'Cause he look like he lost, bring him back

And dig in his pockets quick

Steal his watch and make sure he got a grip, biatch