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Correct Speakeasy Lyrics
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Artists: B
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Bun B
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Correct Speakeasy
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Lyrics:
[Intro: Bluesman Ceddy St. Louis] Please settle downs, everybody sit down Sit down for a second, Mildred! Mildred, get yo' goddamn feet off the table (It's a Big E beat!) C'mon now, shit This is, this is why we don't ever have nothin man It's a good evenin here, Ceddy St. Louis This right here about to bring to the stage Is a gentleman from Port Arther, Texas Real gentleman, real singer, real story teller Real gangsta, a true veteran of the bid'ness Y'all show him some love, talk to 'em Bun [Bun B] Thank y'all for comin to see me this evenin (yeah) Cookin this cajun I laced it with seasonin (huh) In here, I been here and don't plan on leavin The king of the trill's 'bout to pass, who's receivin? I'm throwin, I'm throwed on, the mic I explode Slow all that bangin mayne just like my load Don't test me or stress me, I'm in that mode Where I could just black out and leave yo' ass flo'ed Benzes and Beamers I drove 'em and slabbed 'em Big booty hoes I exposed 'em and grabbed 'em Take 'em right out of they clothes and I have 'em They pussy is golden (what) my dick is platinum And hard as a diamond, I'm hard when I'm rhymin I'm closer to God, like Eric B. I'm in That get money frame of mind, any day and time That's what this is and shit ain't no shame in mine [Interlude: Bluesman Ceddy St. Louis] That's the thing about music: Music is, in and of itself, the pure manifestation Of what we got inside brought out to the outside: Those things that we wanna say, but you can't say to everybody You say when you're inside the studio When you get 'em out n' they come out in a song; The song gone gone come through the airwaves, and touch somebody... [Bun B] Back on that bullshit so bring in the cattle Ready for war so let's get to the battle Niggas is babies with bottles and rattles The street lights is on, it's your curfew, ske-daddle That all you got G? You comin up short You ain't got the muscle, you ain't got the heart You need actin classes, you can't play the part Yo' mind ain't on money you need to get smart I'm known to spit darts that'll land in the center Right in the red for the breadwinner in her Stack in the summer, the ball in the winter I'm grippin that wood (shit) just got a splinter You's a beginner, a novice, a rookie How you got bricks when you can't cop a cookie? We after paper, you after the nookie You bet against me and you lost, pay the bookie [Interlude: Bluesman Ceddy St. Louis] Just gimme a second...gimme a second -- God dammit, Charlie, I'm not gonna say it again -- Make me have to pull my pistol out on here; You know I don't play -- get up; somebody get him; get this little boy -- Now, this gentleman is a wordsmith, architect of words and design, storyteller -- He gonna give it to me right now: [Twista] Twista~! They can never run in my shoes, they know nothin 'bout the ones and the twos (nope) Murder to the drums when I bruise, Twista killin them with Bun and the Blues (yup) Competition better study harder cause I feel like we done found another tune (tune) They gon' try to to be like Muddy Waters, I'mma be the man howlin at the moon (arooo!) Comin up and standin on my stack (stack) a veteran but keep my lyrics dope (dope) And you still listen out the ride (ride) I ain't even got a car note (nope) Y'all ain't snappin cause you wicked crushed and I'mma get 'em, I could tell her (tell her) Fall dash rapper when you tell 'em bust, he can even spit the a cappella ('pella) He can even come right off the top (no) he don't kill 'em even though he crumb (no) He can only kill 'em in the studio when somebody can help him make a song (yeah) Ask me why I don't hear it, I told ya It's nothin but bullshit lyrics in yo' folder (ha ha!) On the blues we come colder, Bun B's a boa Constrictor, Twista inflicts the pain of a cobra Flame and I'mma show ya, the remains of a soldier Down home blues killin niggas in the game, 'til it's over [Outro: Bluesman Ceddy St. Louis] It's music: It's always forthcoming, forth-telling, you know - Ain't none of that bullshit, skippity doppity doo wop bop de bop He talkin' bout some real shit -- Ain't he talkin bout some real shit? Jay! Haven't y'all heard Bun B? Can't he rhyme? that motherfucker can rhyme, can't he? That's what I'm sayin.' Shit...
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