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Hip Hop Weekly 4 - Second Coming/Tuck Ya Ice
#1
Artist: Crooked I
Song: 2nd Coming // Tuck Ya Ice
Produced By: Just Blaze // Kane Beatz
Appears On:

Intro: (Crooked I)

Hip Hop Weekly, C.O.B.
Circle Of Bosses, Crooked I
Thanks for fuckin’ with me, you know what it is
Hip Hop is my mother
Gangster Rap is my father
C.O.B. is my religion
I AM the president of Ghetto America (yes)
I AM the poster boy for section 8 (yeah)
I AM the leader of the 'I-came-from-nothin' campaign
Let's start of slow

Verse 1: (Crooked I)

When your album droppin?
That's what they all say
Check the pulse on the streets
They sayin' it every day
Niggas gettin' mad, say I'm losin’ fans
As if goin' through bullshit was part of my plans
They know I'm street money
They say the nigga's paid
They see them diamonds in the chain
They think I got it made
You one of the hottest with the flow
As far as artists go, go
My penitentiary niggas say I got the hardest flow, go
I got a heart of gold, gold
But now my heart is cold, cold
Because these mean streets’ll eat right through your heart and soul
What do you know about sleepin' in an abandon house? (Nothin!)
What do you know about beefin' with them hammers out? (Nothin!)
Here's what the man's about
I shot the belly of the beast
With hollow tips until he spit me out of his savage mouth
From watchin' my mouth move
To death, they know, I sound tight
My words paint pictures
That's how my blind listeners found sight
When this reside us around mics
This profound writer missed the five ciphers
Just like lightning striking the ground twice
I'm on some other shit
Like attackin' Henney for the fuck of it
Stackin' penny’s up to buy my mother whips
Greatest rapper alive, words from my mother’s lips
You dont believe her, then her son'll tell you "Suck a dick"
There go that drop out nigga, he in that Bentley Coupe
There go that welfare kid, in that Armani suit
The first time they rolled on me, yeah, I was afraid to shoot
The second time I let my pistol whistle like a flute, (braw)
Out West they wonderin' who's the hottest rapper, right?
Here's some ammunition for niggas who defendin' my side
With skills I'm overdosin', even with no promotion
I stands on my own two, by peat on low commotion
You niggas overboastin', I see, you, just like "View-over-ocean"
Nigga my flow is frozen, (come on)
You can ice skate on my 16's, nigga wait
Subtract half of that, it dont matter, it's still a figure 8 (A)

Insert: (Crooked I)

I'm done with you niggas
You know the figure 8 joint they do in a mothafuckin'... fuck it

Verse 2: (Crooked I)

As a baby I sent lyrical signals through the umbilical
Ghost wrote my mother’s poetry
Even she knew that I grow to be, a dope MC
With lyrics in the womb, leanin' your doom
Engineered in a cocoon, with my fearlessness in bloom
When I spit, even the dead hear it in a tomb
So when I'm spillin' lyrics I'm feelin' spirits in the room, (whaaat)
What up Pac, what up BIG, what up my nigga Pun, (yeah)
Eazy E, what up loc, Big L, what up son
Yeah I met Freaky Tah, yo what up don
Left Eye was my homegirl, what up hun
Everyone of em'll tell you Crooked goes hard
Stay tuned, comin' soon, my rap report card
Double Up on ‘em

Intro: (Crooked I)

C.O.B. or nothin’, yeah
Hip Hop mothafuckin’ Weekly, the double up
I see people like Oprah and Al Sharpton
Look like y’all settin’ boobie traps for rap
I’m so gangster, haha
Yeah Hip Hop won’t die, Gangster Rap is breathin’, ya heard me?

Verse 1: (Crooked I)

This’ that mothafuckin’ slow flow, like it or not
I put the stage on the corner, plug in my mic on the block
If it’s for this rap shit, give my life on the spot
If it’s for the revolution, man I’ll sniper a cop
Mafia, got a Gotti Agenda
Do you think I give a fuck about Oprah or her audience members
Hip Hop is in my blood, nigga you probably remember
They attacked us before, did nobody surrender (no)
Art imitates life, haters this is the deal
Dyin’ of thirst in the desert, I wouldn’t piss in ya grill
Ain’t no rap song on earth that makes a listener kill
I’m just here to tell you how us Ghetto Prisoners feel (tell ‘em)
Ain’t it funny how society’s tryin’ to bang us
When it’s schools that’s named after some fuckin’ slave owners
Their historical heroes had the noose to hang on us
Now they mad at what I’m playin’ while my Chevy swang corners
What about them violent movies
Say I’m disrespectin’ women when Rock n Roll invented the groupie
Better save that shit for Gucci, when I was in Milan
I seen one of they models damn near showin’ her coochie
Don’t put prostitute to my lyrical flows?
But it was hookers in the bible, them was biblical hoes
My recital strictly based on what a criminal knows
Take a walk through my hood, watch you shit in your clothes (yeah)
Try to blame us young niggas for this cocaine (why)
F.B.I., C.I.A., those are your planes (why)
Junkies fuckin’ with that shit to heal they own pain (fly)
You fund wars but me, I’m just buyin’ gold chains (I’m fly)
And how am I a misogynist
Nigga if I call a bitch a bitch, believe that the bitch is a bitch
Yeah, some niggas killed my homie, I’m tryin’ to find the suckers
All started with this bitch, he was tryin’ to fuck her (okay)
He was dyin’ to fuck her, then he died
When them niggas came inside with them nines goin’ bucka, bucka (you see)
They killed him for his money, he just wanted to sex her
Stupid bitch set him up and I’m s’posed to respect her? (Never)
Fuckin’ call a bitch a bitch when I spit on a record
If it’s spotted with a long tail it must be a leopard (that’s you)
Don Imus called some women some hoes
That he didn’t even know, so they snatched his show
But if I call a woman a hoe, best believe a nigga know (what?)
She’s sellin’ pussy in exchange for that dough (oh)
Now let’s talk about Virginia Tech
And the medias blatant disrespect for the family
Of the victims for a bigger check (damn)
Ban Gangster Rap from MTV
But you showin’ Cho Sueng Hui on NBC (it’s fucked up)
Whoever ran the footage we should body that nigga
Cause he probably gave birth to some copy cat killers
Probably just spawned some young cocky cap peelers
Blood is on your hands when them body bags fill up (ya heard)
And you tryin’ to shift the blame to Hip Hop
I say Hip Hop Hooray, just like back in the day
When they censored Public Enemy and N.W.A.
Tipper Gore wanted to censor every record we play
I’m a mothafuckin’ gangster on your radio channel
Hypocrites wanna ban me, but they love the Sopranos
Better pull that constitution out, read ‘em and weep
Let’s look at the first amendment man
It say freedom of speech

Next week!
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