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Master P: Ughhh! Ha ha!
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E-40: Oooo! Huh? P what¡¯s up boy?
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MP: What¡¯s up 40 boy?
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E-40: Talk to me weepilation.
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MP: Dey don¡¯t know we been doin¡¯ dis.
|
E-40: Last Deezy, Last Don.
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MP: Bay Area playa nigga.
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E-40: This E-Feezy Fonzareezy, your weepilation up out the Yea Area all day
|
er¡¯ytime. Like dis here. Element of
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Surprise. Da Last Don, Charlie Hustle. Check it out.
|
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E-40:
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Let it be writ and said, done and published
|
That on the sixth month of June 1998
|
E-40 Fonzarellie AKA Charlie Hustleezy
|
And my Third Ward weepilation
|
From the No Limit Records Headquarters and congregation
|
Plugged up and did a rumble together without no hesitation and erased
|
Any Old School classic memories of Northern California
|
Godzilla ballin¡¯ and Bay stranglin¡¯ and hustlin¡¯
|
Morning, night, day in N¡¯Orleans
|
And dang near fallin¡¯ asleep on the freeway
|
Bobbin¡¯ and weavin¡¯ and ditchin¡¯ and dodgin¡¯ po-po, penelope force
|
Tryin¡¯ to convince ¡®em that me and the dope game wasn¡¯t gettin along any how
|
We had been went our separate ways
|
Shit, we been had a divorce
|
In and out of court, betta yet
|
Neva was married any how and engaged
|
Pushed in the game at a young age, trapped in a ghetto cage
|
Went from hardly any to, uh, plenty of cash
|
To, uh, high speed chases to, uh, makin¡¯ a dash
|
¡°Uh, excuse me sir can I have your autograph
|
And, uh, when your new album droppin¡¯ fool
|
That other shit was cool¡±
|
|
(Chorus)
|
E-40:
|
Get your money man, get your paper
|
Get your paper man, get your money
|
Get your fettie or your scratch, get your skrill
|
Get your revvies man, get paid
|
Get your mail man, get your marbles
|
Get your marbles man, get your mail
|
Get your grits, get your chettah, get your chips
|
Get your snaps man, get paid
|
|
Mater P:
|
Ughhh! Ball wit da real, hang wit da G¡¯s
|
Started from Richmond, California to New Orleans
|
Game won¡¯t change, these niggas can¡¯t fade me
|
Mama still pray for baby
|
Ghetto got me sick, dope fiends and crack heads
|
Niggas on da front porch wit¡¯ tech nines and ¡°lemon heads¡±
|
And all I want be is a soldier
|
Cause I¡¯m tired of runnin¡¯ from da rollas
|
Jumped in da rap game and now dey can¡¯t hold us
|
Ghetto millionaires and still blowin¡¯ doja
|
Keep my composure when times hectic
|
Now I own a house in California, Orlando, and Texas
|
And still run wit¡¯ the thug niggas
|
And made tapes for bitches and drug dealas
|
And push 600 wit¡¯ a bulletproof
|
The ghetto Bill Gates
|
The only president wit¡¯ a gold tooth
|
|
(Chorus)
|
|
E-40:
|
Uh, n-neva let your guards down
|
Always play defense neva offense
|
Cause suckas a try to make your kindness for weakness
|
And damn sho¡¯ try to shake your hand up unda falsified pretenses
|
Sequence this
|
Paint a portrait of these next events
|
See if you can predict what I was about to say
|
Within the next couple of sentences
|
Technically impossible
|
To hard to call
|
See right when he thought I was gone throw a slider
|
I threw him a knuckle ball
|
Back against the wall, knockin¡¯ niggas out (knockin¡¯ niggas out)
|
Hemmed up in da corner nigga thats what I¡¯m about
|
|
Master P:
|
Feel my pain, sometimes I feel trapped
|
Nigga tired of hangin¡¯ in the ghetto takin¡¯ food stamps
|
Cause this street life got me crazy
|
But I hustle cause I gotta feed a baby
|
And only God can take me
|
And ain¡¯t no nigga in this hood gone play me
|
So when I ball I¡¯m a ball ¡®til I fizall
|
And when I¡¯m gone put my name on the wizall
|
|
(Chorus)
|
|
[Ad-libs until end]
|
|
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-----------------
|
Get Your Paper
|
| Master P f/ E-40 |
