Get Busy (Hardcore) Songtext
von Marco Polo
Get Busy (Hardcore) Songtext
[** feat. Copywrite:]
[Verse 1:]
Ladies and gentlemen, you ain′t gotta stay in your element*
My staff chuckles while brass knuckles scraping your melanin
You're claiming it was an accident, pay me the settlement
You saying you wasn′t having it, I gave it, you yelling, "Quit! "
Oh, it's on the low though? I stuff cigars with stuff from jars
Above the stars?
I shoot my load ten feet and they asking if I ever thought I'd come this far
Yeah I knew I′d do it, the question is who was stupid to mess with this
Who was losing a second, this music scooped?
To his crew and the message is, "Don′t push me."
You're so pussy that you′re oozing with estrogen
Straightjacket tightened by my psycho ward
And he straight up forgot to lace up my Michael Jordans
I don't write no chorus, no alter ego writes those for us
Fuck a tree dog, I like whole forests
I′ve got the flows to toast most approachers
And got the? so foes don't approach us
Nah?, brough the shotty and the case, check it
Look it, we′ll make em drop shells quicker than Jay records
And the crowd's mine, I'll outline your hood
I′m outside with about nine guys it′s good
While you peasants cry by my foot?
But that's saying they′re trying to get outshined like Suge
Look, you pussies either roll eight on one
Trying to jump me but still can't, they hate on son
They′ll get their money jacked, see me in the span of a few years
Do shit till they see me off? and a few beers
? Big L, Big Pun, and Biggie, with an attitude like Jay so if you come and get me
There'll be eight people with a spiked bat and a gun to kill me
And if I got you for money wait until I′m drunk to hit me, pussy
Matter fact, you ain't even a pussy
You're what bleeds when the summer′s eve cleaning the pussy
C.O.P. you freestyle to see no fee, I am the C.O.
Bringing it to you COD, cash on delivery, and no one can do it better, shit
I′m the D-O-C with OCD, spit heat like a Creole feast
That's why they be on beats, and stick to the point, I don′t see my own feet
[Chorus:]
I can introduce you to your maker
You got a problem with me homeboy, step to me
Strap you down and slap you round
Yeah I said it
[Verse 2:]
Star sprinter, run any track flash above par?
Glue sniffer, jacking coke like a bartender
Punchlines till your bar's tender so let′s?
And we're shooting stars like Hayley′s Comet denting car fenders
My car's bouncing, got hydraulics and metal toys
Yours rides mind's playing tricks like the Ghetto Boyz
Why am I lying? I ain′t got the car and I′m unemployed
My lunch during the day and on it I don't have butter?
No pot to piss in or to cop a squat and drop my shit in
Radio off so I can listen to my couch?
I can sell to?
It′s simple waking up with a naked slut in my boxers
Listen, hip hop is getting out of control
Every power that flows is gangster till the powder's out of his nose
Man in ′95 I thought music was losing it's touch
Compared to now it was a golden era, who would′ve thought?
Now this shit is full of gimmicks, energy, cynics, and critics
Hate one minute then the next wanna finish your sentence
This fake game makes we want to take names
With the chrome in hand and take aim like I own this, man
?
But I'm not trying to spring life beneath dirt
Or a Shyne and C-Murder
I grind to these words
In the mind of each person populating earth
Cop the tape and stop the hatin jerk
[Chorus]
[Verse 1:]
Ladies and gentlemen, you ain′t gotta stay in your element*
My staff chuckles while brass knuckles scraping your melanin
You're claiming it was an accident, pay me the settlement
You saying you wasn′t having it, I gave it, you yelling, "Quit! "
Oh, it's on the low though? I stuff cigars with stuff from jars
Above the stars?
I shoot my load ten feet and they asking if I ever thought I'd come this far
Yeah I knew I′d do it, the question is who was stupid to mess with this
Who was losing a second, this music scooped?
To his crew and the message is, "Don′t push me."
You're so pussy that you′re oozing with estrogen
Straightjacket tightened by my psycho ward
And he straight up forgot to lace up my Michael Jordans
I don't write no chorus, no alter ego writes those for us
Fuck a tree dog, I like whole forests
I′ve got the flows to toast most approachers
And got the? so foes don't approach us
Nah?, brough the shotty and the case, check it
Look it, we′ll make em drop shells quicker than Jay records
And the crowd's mine, I'll outline your hood
I′m outside with about nine guys it′s good
While you peasants cry by my foot?
But that's saying they′re trying to get outshined like Suge
Look, you pussies either roll eight on one
Trying to jump me but still can't, they hate on son
They′ll get their money jacked, see me in the span of a few years
Do shit till they see me off? and a few beers
? Big L, Big Pun, and Biggie, with an attitude like Jay so if you come and get me
There'll be eight people with a spiked bat and a gun to kill me
And if I got you for money wait until I′m drunk to hit me, pussy
Matter fact, you ain't even a pussy
You're what bleeds when the summer′s eve cleaning the pussy
C.O.P. you freestyle to see no fee, I am the C.O.
Bringing it to you COD, cash on delivery, and no one can do it better, shit
I′m the D-O-C with OCD, spit heat like a Creole feast
That's why they be on beats, and stick to the point, I don′t see my own feet
[Chorus:]
I can introduce you to your maker
You got a problem with me homeboy, step to me
Strap you down and slap you round
Yeah I said it
[Verse 2:]
Star sprinter, run any track flash above par?
Glue sniffer, jacking coke like a bartender
Punchlines till your bar's tender so let′s?
And we're shooting stars like Hayley′s Comet denting car fenders
My car's bouncing, got hydraulics and metal toys
Yours rides mind's playing tricks like the Ghetto Boyz
Why am I lying? I ain′t got the car and I′m unemployed
My lunch during the day and on it I don't have butter?
No pot to piss in or to cop a squat and drop my shit in
Radio off so I can listen to my couch?
I can sell to?
It′s simple waking up with a naked slut in my boxers
Listen, hip hop is getting out of control
Every power that flows is gangster till the powder's out of his nose
Man in ′95 I thought music was losing it's touch
Compared to now it was a golden era, who would′ve thought?
Now this shit is full of gimmicks, energy, cynics, and critics
Hate one minute then the next wanna finish your sentence
This fake game makes we want to take names
With the chrome in hand and take aim like I own this, man
?
But I'm not trying to spring life beneath dirt
Or a Shyne and C-Murder
I grind to these words
In the mind of each person populating earth
Cop the tape and stop the hatin jerk
[Chorus]
Writer(s): 0, Marco P Bruno Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
