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| Artist: Master P f/ E-40 Album: MP Da Last Don Song: Get Your Paper Master P: Ughhh! Ha ha! E-40: Oooo! Huh? P what’s up boy? MP: What’s up 40 boy? E-40: Talk to me weepilation. MP: Dey don’t know we been doin’ dis. E-40: Last Deezy, Last Don. MP: Bay Area playa nigga. E-40: This E-Feezy Fonzareezy, your weepilation up out the Yea Area all day er’ytime. Like dis here. Element of Surprise. Da Last Don, Charlie Hustle. Check it out. E-40: 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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