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Go... Yeah... you wanna know what this is my nigga (The creased khaki flow) The creased khaki flow ykno what I'm talking about, that gangsta shit, what else (the white tee spit) Yeah, I'm talking about a whole motherfuckin can of starch nigga (the creased khaki flow) And one crease comin down the middle of a white t-shirt yeah (the white tee spit) Crooked I's cold-blooded like I gotta Rick James degree I'm so rugged, switch lanes with me I'm so thuggish, ho's love it, flip change, live dangerously Only lames spit game for free You damn right this man writes his raps like his life's in a crisis And I'm twice as sick as Ms. Anne Rice is I stand right up squeezin the mic lifeless You might like my concise preciseness... like this Cats came in the rap game and claimin they crack slangin, the gat aimin In fact, they act just like Matt Damon Homie my gat'll slay men You cats say when and... blaow I roll up on your block then I blast Cops finna ask who shot you while you rockin an oxygen mask I hit the gas in the drop finna smash to the spot Got my glock locked in the stash spot in the dash SongtexteMy six cruise on big shoes I'm a lit fuse with sick views I got issues, I misuse... pistols Say we in combat, I spazmatic like a crazy Vietnam cat [Hook:] Yeah, crease your motherfuckin khakiz up Juice the batteries in your low-rider caddies up Chuck Taylors, white tees, slang cavy what These streets made me a trigger-happy nut Yeah, crease your motherfuckin khakiz up Juice the batteries in your low-rider caddies up White tees, Chuck Taylors, slang cavy what These streets made me a trigger-happy nut Yeah, it's young Crooked Yeah you had a leg but my pump took it Now you hip-hop cuz you one-footed I lick shots, drop, here comes bullets I leave scenes sick as Hitchcock News won't even run footage (tell em) I come hooded jus like a grim...reaper Slim... keeper, 9 double m heater Creepin in tha streets, deep in the seats of tha jeep Beatin new releases through 10 speakers It gets deeper I'm bringin that long beach feeling back See me on tha eastside where all of them killers at But my enemies don't wear raiders, saints, or even a steelers hat They wear a badge... how real is that? No matter what, ghetto life is still in my veins If you poverty-living, I know you feelin my pain I'm still sick in the brain, skill spit with such meticulous game Shoot ridiculous like Nicholas Van Exel Guess who's sexing your step-daughters A nigga who can draw glocks better than sketch-artists When I walk in the club, hug your ho Hustlers know, I'm nut-so with the thugsta flow Everything's open, nothing is closed Magazine's throwing me on them fuckin covers to pose Look at young papi, cocky, never sold one copy Gun cocked rocky, please come stop me So and so is cool, what's his name is aight Homeboy is okay, but Crooked I is tyte That's what's heard, that's my word, act absurd You cats get served cuz I rap disturbed I'm closing doors with the quickness I'm in the Pocanos poking hos hoping you don't poke your nose in my business haters I'm scopin those from a distance Relentless foes get a broken nose for persistence Absolutely, cats bringin gats to shoot me I even watch all them rats actin goofy Disguised as groupies, that's a doozy What's that bulge under your shirt? That's a uzi... excuse me [Hook] Yeah! Long Beach is back, I told y'all niggaz man I'm comin down Atlantic Ave. letting my paint drip on the motherfuckin street '61 rag ay style, we gonna get this money and buy the Queen Mary 5-6-2 I told y'all Long Beach is ba-a-a-a-a-ACK! nigga! gyeah! Creased Khaki Flow...The White Tee Spit Jim Gittum...Crooked I C.O.B. til we di-i-ie Aus Songtexte Mania