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JME lyrics - Famous?

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Jamie Adenuga that's me, confessed I'm the best I'm a don, I been shoppin' spendin' P, and I heard lady sing man song, You might see me with President T, dun know, we call him ching chang chon, 'Cause he cuts up rocks with scissors, and makes paper, that's what big man's on, Bruv, when I'm out spending cash, I might run into some local scruff, And they start showin' off, true say they don't see JME on road too tough, On some ediot childish hype, showin' off all they white bone and stuff, Take a look at me rudeboi, you don't see paper, but I'm holdin nuff, [Chorus:] Everywhere I go, I see the same bro's, They lookin' at me funny, Yeh, there puttin' on a sho-ow, sho-ow No wonder why they make no dough, [x2] Area Watford, me and Skeps, Sam an' Ez get searched on the steps, All pat down and a metal detector, Incase mans got a shank in their crepes, Straight downstairs, straight to the bar, No space for order, it's a par, While I paitiantly wait, one guy always wants to screwface, Ediot, I'm not afraid of him cause I pump up tone up weights in the gym, I don't know what this guys thinkin', All I know is he's not blinkin', A girl taps him shoulder, He turns round, smiles, starts drinkin, I don't understand, there's bare girls but he's on some badman ting... [Chorus:] Everywhere I go, I see the same bro's, They lookin' at me funny, Yeh, there puttin' on a sho-ow, sho-ow No wonder why they make no dough, [x2] How many people are gonna tell me that JME's not reppin the ends, Shut ya mouth you stupid speng, I was representin' in year 10, Whinchmore uniform Heat FM, So, I don't wanna hear no bullshit again, I live on the north of the LDN, But I represent the north and south of the Thames, And the left to the right, Bruv, I represent anyone who has lived the street life, So no-one chat to me, Cause before I Mc'd, No-one used to chat to me, But now you think your a real goon, You ain't even made one real tune, Shut ya mouth stop lyin' to me, I don't know who your tryin' to be... [Chorus:] Everywhere I go, I see the same bro's, They lookin' at me funny, Yeh, there puttin' on a sho-ow, sho-ow No wonder why they make no dough, Everywhere I go, I see the same bro's, They lookin' at me funny, Yeh, there puttin' on a sho-ow, sho-ow No wonder why they make no do-o-ough, Sho-ow, Sho-ow, Sho-ow, Sho-ow, Ya make no Do-ow-ow-ow-ow-ough... Hem Hem, I can't do it...

Old School Mouse

JOE BUDDEN "Mood Muzik 2: Can It Get Any Worse?"
You now listenin to a different type of boss Abstract, they cut him from a different type of clothe Jers say that mouths want a different type of soft Only started when I was lookin at different type of lofts Told em, I'm a don, show me somethin with a pool next I need four bathrooms, it ain't gotta be a duplex White tee, boots yes, see 'em in a suit next Or somethin European shirt lookin like a two X Runnin for the ball like I'm Plaxico Burress Or in Cancun breakin a back on a brunette Gimmicks down pat like they rehearse that much I don't response to a sublime, it ain't hurt that much Yea I scream out Jers that much Cause these other dudes fightin for New York like it's worth that much And these sitcom niggaz caress and hold bitches To them they 'golden girls', to me, they old bitches Chicks lookin at G-Ucons lookin to cheat you Owe a nigga money, you know he lookin to see you! Niggaz lookin to beat you Fiend treat the hood like its Saw part two, cause they just lookin for needles I wake up grateful that I'm breathin first Cause dudes'll kill you, they don't need a reason first! These niggaz'll still hit em They know the hood is too poor to hire CSI, and Gil Grissom Nowadays, gotta keep a blue steel wit em I know about snakes, cause I used to deal wit em Used to give my heart, used to rob, steal, wit em Let 'em meet mom, share my last meal wit em To rap now, you ain't gotta have skill wit em Just appeal...witta lil bit a' rhythm A dude has that and ready to attack y'all You gotta kiss ass or else you get blackballed If you don't like niggaz, still give 'em dap y'all I swear to God this hip hop shit is a trap y'all I don't even remember how I used to act y'all Something wrong wit the math, I know I can add y'all I came out screamin Desert Storm everyday And soon as I stop, he don't wanna play Stacks sayin what you did for Clue, shit I just laced it I didn't even know that dude was doin his tape, shiiiitt He don't want the fame no more, its fuckin wit me Don't hear Reasonable Doubt the same more I can't listen to Blueprint (Naaw!) Got a resentment toward Hov, tryin to hate on em, throwin in my two cent They say don't bite the hand that feeds you Even if I wanted to, I can't, no teeth to Don't get me wrong, I still got love for Clue and Hov But they both rich, so what that gotta do wit Joe?! I gotta bring home food for Joe...Trey that is... Like, fuck why I say that shit?! See, girl why you take that shit, but it's just how I feel, so naw, don't erase that shit Child supports a bitch, but I take care of mine But the Lord just say I ain't there for mine And the judge I look at (what about?) Don't wanna hear, nor do he understand that things got pushed back I'm sittin here with all this anger, stop me He's like what about this thing called a Gangsta Party? Must think I live life like it's a Gangsta Party! I'm 10 seconds away from a gangsta robbery, nigga!! No four leaf clover, I can't luck up Feel like removin the seeds and gettin fucked up Feelin quick temper, somebody bound to get fucked up I feel like everyone around me's a fuck up Ratchet on me, I'm screamin out What What Bout to live life like my last buck's up I ain't got time to run around stuck up Not when I just seen a group of niggaz gettin stuck up So you damn right, I'm on my grind Look like some shit is on my mind niggaz Need to talk, but nobody to turn to So I go to horoscopes in the Jersey Journal It's always somethin bad, I don't know why I read it Then I play it off, its fake, I don't believe it! Smoking like two packs a day Still got about five cartridges stashed away And that's just were I'm at today I'll be in a better place if I just pass away (Sike!) Just hop in the casket and lay That's old school mouse, move on, put the past away

10 Lack There Of

Biohazard
Lack of trust, all alone Lookin' down at the bottom of a hole I've no trust, bare my soul Are we alone or do we have friends Or are we just searchin' for a means to an end What up, peace out, my boys and all that But as soon as we leave they talk behind our backs Low selfimage of the way things are Either way we lose and we can never go far 'Cause always we'll wonder as to just what's the deal It just depends on what you feel is real Perception is everything inside our brains With much bigger problems, no time for games Of people acting down but it's just a facade Can't say it to my face, isn't that odd Just what exactly does trust mean Is it about being down with the scene Or is it about following your own true heart And being true to your friends to the end from the start Just what is wealth it's just how you view it It's not having to wonder whether or not you might lose it It can't be about material gain If you're drowning alone neck deep in pain To trust and lay your soul on the line May not be the nature of most humankind Lookin' over your shoulder is no way to go So stick with true friends and do without the doubt

Mary Queen Of Arkansas

BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN "Disc: 1"
The ragamuffin gunner is returnin' home like a hungry runaway He walks through town all alone-- He must be from the fort, he hears the high school girls say His countryside's burnin' with wolfman fairies dressed in drag for homicide The hit-and-run plead sanctuary, 'neath a holy stone they hide They're breakin' beams and crosses with a spastic's reelin' perfection Nuns run bald through Vatican halls, pregnant, pleadin' immaculate conception And everybody's wrecked on Main Street from drinking unholy blood Sticker smiles sweet as Gunner breathes deep, his ankles caked in mud And I said, Hey, gunner man, that's qucksand, that's quicksand, that ain't mud Have you thrown your senses to the war, or did you lose them in the flood? That pure American brother, dull-eyed and empty-faced Races Sundays in Jersey in a Chevy stock super eight He rides 'er low on the hip, on the side he's got Bound for Glory in red, white and blue flash paint He leans on the hood telling racing stories, the kids call him Jimmy the Saint Well, that blaze-and-noise boy, he's gunnin' that bitch loaded to blastin' point He rides head first into a hurricane and disappears into a point And there's nothin' left but some blood where the body fell, that is, nothin' left that you could sell Just junk all across the horizon, a real highwayman's farewell And I said, Hey kid, you think that's oil? Man, that ain't oil, that's blood I wonder what he was thinking when he hit that storm, or was he just lost in the flood? Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she's puttin' on me the stare And Bronx's best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware Everything stops, you hear five quick shots, the cops come up for air And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they're shootin' up the street And that cat from the Bronx starts lettin' loose, but he gets blown right off his feet And some kid comes blastin' 'round the corner, but a cop puts him right away He lays on the street holding his leg, screaming something in Spanish, still breathing when I walked away And somebody said, Hey man, did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud I wonder what the dude was sayin', or was he just lost in the flood? Hey man, did you see that, those poor cats are sure messed up I wonder what they were gettin' into, or were they just lost in the flood?

Lost In The Flood

BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN "Disc: 1"
The ragamuffin gunner is returnin' home like a hungry runaway He walks through town all alone He must be from the fort he hears the high school girls say His countryside's burnin' with wolfman fairies dressed in drag for homicide The hit and run, plead sanctuary, 'neath a holy stone they hide They're breakin' beams and crosses with a spastic's reelin' perfection nuns run bald through Vatican halls pregnant, pleadin' immaculate conception And everybody's wrecked on Main Street from drinking unholy blood Sticker smiles sweet as gunner breathes deep, his ankles caked in mud And I said 'Hey, gunner man, that's quicksand, that's quicksand that ain't mud Have you thrown your senses to the war or did you lose them in the flood?' That pure American brother, dull-eyed and empty-faced races Sundays in Jersey in a Chevy stock super eight He rides 'er low on the hip, on the side he's got Bound For Glory in red, white and blue flash paint He leans on the hood telling racing stories, the kids call him Jimmy The Saint Well the blaze and noise boy, he's gunnin' that bitch loaded to blastin' point He rides head first into a hurricane and disappears into a point And there's nothin' left but some blood where the body fell That is, nothin' left that you could sell just junk all across the horizon, a real highwayman's farewell And he said 'Hey kid, you think that's oil? Man, that ain't oil that's blood' I wonder what he was thinking when he hit that storm Or was he just lost in the flood? Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she's puttin' on me the stare and Bronx's best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware Everything stops, you hear five, quick shots, the cops come up for air And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they're shootin' up the street And that cat from the Bronx starts lettin' loose but he gets blown right off his feet And some kid comes blastin' round the corner but a cop puts him right away He lays on the street holding his leg screaming something in Spanish Still breathing when I walked away And somebody said 'Hey man did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud' I wonder what the dude was sayin' or was he just lost in the flood? Hey man, did you see that, those poor cats are sure messed up I wonder what they were gettin' into, or were they just lost in the flood?

Poppin' Tags

JAY-Z "The Blueprint 2: The Gift & The Curse"
(feat. Big Boi, Killer Mike, Twista) [Intro/Chorus: repeat 2X] And we gon' stay hustlin on that block until we caught And we gon' stay showin off that jewelry that we bought And we gon' stay leavin out the stores with heavy bags Cause we poppin tags, pimpin we be poppin tags! [Verse One: Jay-Z] We arose, let's go 'So Fresh So Clean' like 'Kast Jay-Z be poppin tags Leavin the mall with heavy bags You know the boy got a love for the cash Aw fuck, there he go again Talkin bout hoes and dough again Yup! -- Can't hold it in I'm surprised I got so much dough to spend But, back when I was poorer then You wasn't focusin, about the dough I spend But I was holdin in, I was a roller then I was a baller back then, all of that man Fall back, I fought that What would you do if you was in my shoes Leave dudes in the rearview V-12 engine, corners spinnin Twinkies shinin, pinky ring Armadale, nigga stinky stink Top, down, my cash is up Gold chain, I don't give a fuck Gold brain'll get you in the truck ma That's right, you in luck ma You see me cruisin down, better step inside Ain't enough room to fit you all in the ride First come, first served basis You know Hov' be goin to nice places That's right, and I'm droppin cash Leave the mall with garbage bags Gucci this, Prada that Roll witcha boy you'll be poppin tags [Chorus] [Verse Two: Twista] It's a party when I go up in the sto' Shoppin while I'm zooted off the dro' Rollin like a nigga that just came up on a mill' and I got 'em sweepin and pickin up tags off the flo' Bag full of clothes I remember havin rocks in the hall on the glimmer with the glock by the ball Servin up a jab and workin security 6 to 6 Then it's straight from the block to the mall Now what's on the wall Go ahead and treat yo'self When you come up on some cheddar better pop that tag Like when I dip off in the Prada then I go off to the lot lay the paper down and cop that Jag I got a console full of ammunition and funds Mink Roc-a-Wear and some guns Petty in a fresh pair of jumps, blo-packs and Bo Jax and Air Maxes, throw back some ones, no max for none (When I go up in the sto' a nigga never get enough) I'm a baller and if you want it come and get it now (Nigga come to a race with a car you won't catch up) And the Twista kinda wicked when I spit it now I be choppin up cheddar with Kanye Chop a little cheddar up with Jay Chop it up with the O-to-the-Kizay Poppin big tags with the flow and the dough, we get bi-zay! [Chorus] [Verse Three: Killer Mike] Uh-huh, whattup Tell you somethin bout me.. My throwback game is whiffle wicked Saint Patties day, green pinstripe, number 20 Mark Spitz'n Jersey ooh-wee with the matchin Nu*Wear fitted White boys say my style is bitchin Keepin coke in the kitchen Keep a glock that will shock and bring the rest tucked underneath my Michelin S I, travellin, handlin with a forty-five cannon It's tucked in my Marc Buchanan Extra clips and shells in the lambskin Two deep by Pelle Pelle Westside how they felly fell More G's on me, than a late 80's Gucci leather worn by the great Rakim himself Stitch my Dapper Dan oh man with the gun in hand I leave your blood squirting No offense, I'll put your face on the chest of a sweatshirt drawn by Shirt Kings I been fucking, a hustle, married to a racket since the first Air Jordan's and Starter jackets I slept with a package, under mattress I carry guns heavy speakeasy, slight with the fight words I'll put somethin hot through your motherfuckin iceberg Got a project chica, named Rica She keep a purse full of dro' reefer Small, pinkies like that Talk 'til the paper fat I rock somethin, roll chief +Sacks+ like Daddy Fat! [Chorus] [Verse Four: Big Boi] Pop tires in reverse, you'll be needin a nurse Leave you layin on your back in a Cadillac hearse Now your momma in all black with a matchin purse I know you wanna blow up, but a funeral hurts What's worse, you can hit the mall and ball 'til you fall Have to make a collect call, but your cell cut off Trot to the mailbox thinkin a check but the mail's run short No more MD, DD, LD That means Movie Date, Dinner Date, Lunch Date, help me please My sheets is gone Long bread to the short bread, word is bond Meticulously pimpously serve the song Act a damn donkey Like the pilgrims when they popped a tag on the indians home Drop top rag-o with the weed gone Chillin, bags in the trunk full of FEO Schwartz for the chill'uns Spent a few shillings Sip a few chickens, lick a few kittens, just kiddin A fresh bowl of milk is in the fridge and Can you pop the tags on the honeycombs Or are you actin mad cause the money done slowed, down, just a little bit Dipped, poked out, did some shull-bit Actin like a pitfall bull-pit Dead game is the pul-pit Leave a motherpumper with his John Doe toe tag clipped Imperial classic, a lyrical thrashin A miracle happenin Jay-Z, Killer Mike and Big Boi rappin and rhymin and smabbin Pop that tag on some of this game Holla-tic, swallow and keep the change [Chorus]

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