[ad libs and shouts for first 12 seconds] 



[C-Rayz Walz] 

C-Rayz, guns and butter! 

Go back upstairs, eat your mac cheese and fishsticks 

You not 50, you gon' die tryin to "Get Rich" 

I spit sick, my lungs' disease is from Asia 

My LP's a "Funcrusher" too, my Fantasia's 

Roy Jones, knock opponents and ball too 

I'm a MC! (Yo!) What the fuck they call you?! 

Pussy, my grammar's truth y'all 

You wanna be a player, just to dive for loose balls 

Dickhead - come out your face, say somethin slick 

My lines get all up in your ass, like your uncle's dick 

That chick said you're a small piece of wood 

stuck in her fingertip (huh?) Little prick! 

You ain't even on my son's level, he just a little sick 

This ain't really nuttin devil, it's just a little bit 

Illegitimate trip through my scenic path 

If I really spit, the kids would hate english class 

Do the math, my science will blow up your lab 

Slow up your staff, I laugh at your arts and crafts 

You ass, smelly socks and jocks, gym trash 

Drag past those who study honies with drab bags 

Son you, have your moms yellin HEY THEY +BAGGED-DAD+ 

Come through, bomb you like schools in Iraq 

Dumb dude, in fact you fiction, mouth be spittin 

Raps collapse your ear where wax'll stack, listen 

Drum tap, young cat, old vision, soul glisten 

Gun clap, one track mind, rhyme whole rhythm creatin 

Instead of waitin, refrain from thought patterns 

Of your dame givin me crazy brains like horseradish 



[Chorus] 

Get those props, follow my light 

Spit so hot, last week I had to swallow my ice 

We end the year with a token ending, swollen sentence 

Off the chain like a stolen pendant 

Get those props, follow my light 

Spit so hot, last week I had to swallow my ice 

In the gutter where suckers'll cut ya, mothers'll hug ya 

It all comes down to guns and butter 



[C-Rayz Walz] 

I already seen a mill'/Amil, but you ain't even heard me yet 

She moves well without the +Roc+ like the Jersey Nets 

You can't, get in the game, your position is lame 

Stay on the bench, enjoy the wood you Marc Twain character 

I'm holdin back! So I won't melt the polar caps 

So good off the top, my hairline's growin back 

I make sense/cents now, I'll make dollars later 

Holla hater, catch a scratch from the Cut Creator 

These is Reebok lines, they supposed to be pumped 

And get your smoke for free, like promotional blunts 

Your style standard, my style is simply candid 

I don't jerk off no more, I came empty-handed 

Honeydip said you spit like you sprayin a clip 

And wipe my mouth off with tissue, I be sayin some shit 

So you can stack cracks, clap gats or rap 

We where the wild things are, and it's a fact I max 

Subtract the whack, now divide the stacks 

Multiplied by the feel of the real, and I'm back 

And my DAT contains the masters, so I maintain disaster 

Polly with NASA, master tracks 

Anything less than that? I'm bridgin the gap 

Like African tribes, I got pussy sewed up, it's a rap 

But if it's that deep, dap me, clap me too 

I fear none of you characters, like Scrappy Doo 

"C'mon, put 'em up!" Make the rumors greater 

My name's fate, we gon' meet up, sooner or later 

Give you fools +Juelz+, like a Santana verse 

And wreck the beat 'til your bandana burst 



[Chorus]