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Grand Finale
Bun B, Fat Joe, Ice Cube, Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz, Nas & T.I.
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Yeah! (Yeah!)
It's been a long journey getting to this motherfucking point
On this Crunk Juice shit (What?!)
But we done got to the last motherfucking
Song, nigga (Last shit, niggas!)
And I got five of the hottest motherfucking MCs in the world (Uh-huh!)
Giving you that gangsta shit!
(It's Music Tape for life, free Pimp C)
It's the motherfucking Grand Finale!
We growing doja in the basement in that underwater garden
With heron in the back shed, dry until it harden
Making hash up in the oven, with yayo on the hot plate
Drinking, frying and freezing, it's obvious we got weight
That hard work, that soft work, even that wet work
Built-in clientele so we ain't gotta network
We always got work, so we ain't gotta get work
And if you ain't getting your work from us, you bound to get jerked
The yayo experts, we been whipping the yola
Since the crackers decided to take the coke out Coca-Cola
Hold up, hold up, roll as the king of the trill
The underground as well, you can step in the ring when you feel
Nigga, just sound the bell
They say the haters in this game, but the grind, I'm loving
Pimpin', we past all that pushing, man, it's time for shoving
I got the mask, I got the strap, soon as I find a glove
Then we gon' start exposing hoes like Fahrenheit 9/11
Yo, I'ma speak clearly 'cause I don't think they hearin' me
A nigga only fear is getting charged with conspiracy
I can get it right to ya, sticky green, white to ya
Wear whatever you want, bullets going right through ya
If you stressin' to get buried
My niggas'll send you back to the essence in a hurry
Sipping Crunk Juice, blowing dutchies in the Chevy
Try to figure me out, dog, I'm light but I'm heavy
Yellow lemonheads in the bezzie of the Presi'
And yeah, anybody can rock, but D-Block rock steady
Feds don't need no warrants 'cause y'all all informants
So I get higher than New York insurance
Try to keep shit clean like Florence
Moved on up on the East Side 'cause I never lost endurance
And it's all real niggas
If I ever get a license to carry
Shit, that's a license to kill niggas
I refuse to lose, I'd rather give these weak dudes the blues
And separate 'em from they jewels, teach 'em don'ts and do's
I raise tools, make crews, make decisions confused
All spectators can say is, "This lil' nigga's a fool"
A short fuse with some loose screws, some unscrewed
Here to prove you niggas pussy as the Moulin Rouge
So who gon' move? You know who, the you know what
Or the you know where, going 'gainst 'em's too unfair
'Cause everywhere you do a show, we got kinfolk there
Now you know I ain't the more than nine or ten folk there
Name powerful as the one at the end of your prayer
Got you running for your life without a minute to spare
Catch you dead to the right, melt the grease in your hair
When I go to war, it's gon' be an indecent affair
Guarantee you nann real nigga breathing'll care
That at your funeral, just your parents and the preacher was there
I don't tell 'em, "Vision ain't dropping," reaching for help
So I ain't gotta say a word, pimp, you beating yourself
You gon' get what you deserve for disrespecting the game
Any nigga with the nerve to say another man name
When that other man ain't even present
And deny it when somebody ask him about it, that nigga's a lame
You like to lie on the mic, hide behind fame
I was a G when I came and that's the way I remain
Uh, uh, yeah, uh
You bizarre, Egyptian walker, fuckers have a conniption
My existence persistent to bring foes misfortune
I dazzle 'em like the alderman
Billy Dee in mahogany minus the perm
From the tiniest sperm that the mightiest, the almighty can muster
Project prophet, chronic blockage gives Alzheimer's to youngsters
Amongst them is me, can't remembers my beefs
With who for what, they screw-face me up
My boo lace me up, Balenciaga
Flimsy convo with bimbos in South Parky Lago
In pimp mode, the imp flow on his clothes and you know it's over
Hammer hit pen, pin hit shell from the shell, the slug gon' intrude ya
Try not to lose me, I try not to lose ya
Mama say, mama sa, mi manco sa fly to Cuba
To chill with some political niggas who ill
'Cause y'all niggas are losers, don't get comfortable, niggas
Say hello to Mr. Bad Guy
Get that cash, pa, I'm the last don you'll ever know
So here you go, y'all can take these thoughts
Anyway, I'm charging MCs a late fee cost
So when y'all done with my style, please break me off
But never make Nas mad just in case we cross
'Cause, uh, lately, y'all don't make me happy
To calm my nerve, I need the herb GNC don't carry
(Who the fuck is that?) It's Ice Cube, motherfucker
(He's a maniac) No, I'm a fool, motherfucker
Old school motherfucker, blow through a motherfucker
What you heard about a nigga so true, motherfucker
See, I'm ugly and pretty, I'm polished and gritty
Shoot better than that nigga that tried to kill 50
See, niggas get shitty when I come to they city
When I hit the spot, that bitch they like, she coming with me
'Cause I got a ego big as T.O
But I'm not a eagle, bitch, I roll a Regal
'Cause gangstas don't dance, we boogie
I told you motherfuckers Kobe didn't take that pussy
Get money, get paid, you can beat that shit
Even if the D.A. is a piece of shit
Colorado got bravado, but eat that shit
Another white bitch lying on the Black dick
I keep it flipping like flapjacks, pimping like black 'Lacs
Give niggas flashbacks, they sweaty as ass cracks
When I hit the tarmac, it feel like a car jack
Niggas get out and vanish like Star Trek
So fucking incredible, I'm so fucking credible
No matter what happen, I'll never turn federal
And that's my report coming straight from Cali
Ice Cube is the shit on this motherfucking Grand Finale
ย
Call, this call is from: Chyna
Hang up to decline the call
Or to accept the call, dial 5 now
To block future prepaid calls from this person, dial 77
What up, nigga?
You know I be trying to call you from here
I ain't got that many minutes, you don't be answering the phone
You know when it say "unknown name," man
Answer the phone, it's Chyna
Man, y'all doing y'all thing, you heard me?
Let me tell you something: when this Crunk Juice drop
Let these niggas know, dog, I'm coming back, you heard me?
This my last rip in this bitch
I ain't coming back 'cause I'm sick of eating mackerel and noodles
And wearing these khakis, you dig?
Let these niggas know I'm 'bout to shut it down 2005, you heard me?
The white 'bout to hit the block
And lace their veins with that raw dope, you heard me?
Y'all did it big in 2004
Y'all gon' do it even bigger in 2005 with the white back on the scene
John, look, look, the phone 'bout to hang up
I'ma holla at you later, alright?
ย