"Time Killers" lyrics

Yeah (Yeah)
Yeah
Yeah
Huh
Yeah
(Stupid-ass sh—, don't wanna hear none of that shit)
On God
Uh, yeah

Wake up, I'm on the night shift, don't do me wrong
Pull up, I need my sidekick, come get me on
On, on, turn me on
Slow down, follow the process, I'm in the zone
One umbrella, two pairs come, you play your rose
Euros, really I'm out here, I'm in the pros
Black man made it the hard way, he think he Hov
So mad looking at my shit, it could be yours
911 fuck a black folk, I got the Porsche
Two time felon, behind the gates it's a resort
Gotta watch for these devils that steal your shit and get control
Careful on that road, dumb lil nigga getting low on what he owe
While I'm doing what he don't, 'til then free the locs
Another rapper turn joke (Joke)
Another so-so (Goddman, homie)
Nigga, please let it go (Let it go)
Uh

God bless the dead, move from the past, hmm (Ay, yeah)
Nine million, all cash, hmm (Ay, ay)
It's like my overtime flex (Ballin')
Fuck, is she satisfied? Yes (Oh my, yeah)
(Break it off the side with you)
(Hate y'all) No secret, I'm on the road
They played y'all, not with us (Do what you're told)
Money do cartwheels, backflippin' gold
I don't take advice from niggas with no hoes (Haha)
Nigga, you talk so much, you's the hoe
I live rent-free, boy, y'all controlled (Oh)
I need four commas (Money, fuck zeroes)
Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh (Su, su, su, suu)
Wake up, hop out the phone booth, I'm on the way
Grew up on Figueroa Street, I saw the blade (Su)
Lil ol' scrawny nigga for sure was catching fades
Raised by all women and still I never caved
Took it three times, extended from greatness, I display
Home of the brave, ran by the slaves
Stole everybody name so white Jesus on the chain
I feel proud when it hangs
Try to hide from the fame and still came with a bang
I'm a Figg nigga, turned a black cloud to a flame
I'm a big wheelin', stomach full, mouth full of paint
It was God-given, lil' nigga took it too far
I'm a lone star, street-smart and I'm book-smart
That's the dope part, uh, yeah
Look at my report card
Boy, supposed to hit the four-yard
A man supposed to have scars (Ayy)
Nigga, it ain't that hard
When I'm groovin' in the NASCAR
To Hoover Street, I'm Mozart
Boy, livin' on a postcard
Smooth steerin' for the hard R
Fuck y'all (My nig—)

Yeah
They thought I was crazy
Haha, they said I was cra—
They thought I was crazy