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Correct Guns And Butter Lyrics
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Artists: C
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C-Rayz Walz
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Correct Guns And Butter
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Lyrics:
[ad libs and shouts for first 12 seconds] [C-Rayz Walz] see-Rayz, guns and butter! Go back upstairs, eat your mac cheese and fishsticks You not 50, you gon' die tryin to "Get Rich" I spit sick, my lungs' disease is from Asia My LP's a "Funcrusher" too, my Fantasia's Roy Jones, knock opponents and ball too I'm a MC! (Yo!) What the fuck they call you?! Pussy, my grammar's truth y'all You want to be a player, just to dive for loose balls Dickhead - come out your face, say somethin slick My lines get all up in your ass, like your uncle's dick That chick said you're a small piece of wood stuck in her fingertip (huh?) Little prick! You ain't even on my son's level, he just a little sick This ain't really nuttin devil, it's just a little bit Illegitimate trip through my scenic path If I really spit, the kids would hate english class Do the math, my science will blow up your lab Slow up your staff, I laugh at your arts and crafts You ass, smelly socks and jocks, gym trash Drag past those who study honies with drab bags Son you, have your moms yellin HEY THEY +BAGGED-DAD+ Come through, bomb you like schools in Iraq Dumb dude, in fact you fiction, mouth be spittin Raps collapse your ear where wax'll stack, listen Drum tap, young cat, old vision, soul glisten Gun clap, one track mind, rhyme whole rhythm creatin Instead of waitin, refrain from thought patterns Of your dame givin me crazy brains like horseradish [Chorus] Get those props, follow my light Spit so hot, last week I had to swallow my ice We end the year with a token ending, swollen sentence Off the chain like a stolen pendant Get those props, follow my light Spit so hot, last week I had to swallow my ice In the gutter where suckers'll cut ya, mothers'll hug ya It all comes down to guns and butter [C-Rayz Walz] I already seen a mill'/Amil, but you ain't even heard me yet She moves well without the +Roc+ like the Jersey Nets You can't, get in the game, your position is lame Stay on the bench, enjoy the wood you Marc Twain character I'm holdin back! So I won't melt the polar caps So good off the top, my hairline's growin back I make sense/cents now, I'll make dollars later Holla hater, catch a scratch from the Cut Creator These is Reebok lines, they supposed to be pumped And get your smoke for free, like promotional blunts Your style standard, my style is simply candid I don't jerk off no more, I came empty-handed Honeydip said you spit like you sprayin a clip And wipe my mouth off with tissue, I be sayin some shit So you can stack cracks, clap gats or rap We where the wild things are, and it's a fact I max Subtract the whack, now divide the stacks Multiplied by the feel of the real, and I'm back And my DAT contains the masters, so I maintain disaster Polly with NASA, master tracks Anything less than that? I'm bridgin the gap Like African tribes, I got pussy sewed up, it's a rap But if it's that deep, dap me, clap me too I fear none of you characters, like Scrappy Doo "c'mon, put 'em up!" Make the rumors greater My name's fate, we gon' meet up, sooner or later Give you fools +Juelz+, like a Santana verse And wreck the beat 'til your bandana burst [Chorus]
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