Print

You know it's Whitey And the Likwits I say it's Whitey And the Likwits You know it's Whitey And the Likwits Watch me rock these sounds from the Polo Grounds To the Sunset Strip. I'm like an acid trip. I'll flash it back on ya, run it up on ya, I'm born in Hempstead, L.I., raised in California Mister entrepreneur, I rock the shot that's sure I need a dime plus more, I've sipped the fine liqueur I want the cash in hand and the beachfront land And I'll get loco from Acapulco to Japan Mister Whitey Ford gets terrain explored You perpetrate that fraud you must be out your gourd It's time to make like Greg Nice, kid, and praise the lord Keep the faith. Smoke an eighth. Continue stackin' papers all up in my safe Commence to motivate, assume an altered state, And kill your whole whack show like I'm Edgar Allan Poe With a psychotic thriller. No peckerwood's iller Than this freckle-faced man with the farmer's tan If I can't bomb on you I'm bombin' on your man SongtexteCHORUS: Some get the shit, sugar. Some get the stains Some get the muscles, baby, some get the brains Some get the powers, love, some get the papers And some catch the vibes and some catch the vapors Better Praise the Lord! Keep the Faith! (4x) Say roll to the rock, rock to the roll Whitey Ford brings the devastatin' mic control Like Derrell McDaniel, a hundred G's annual The tips get clocked, baby, the bonds get stocked My style gets rocked just like doors get knocked With legendary status like my name's Lou Brock In my lands are sounds be shakin' the grounds Huntin' down crews like packs of bloodhounds Snatchin' off crowns and meltin' 'em down I once was lost, see, but now I'm found Amazing grace how sweet the sound And when the saints come marchin' in I'm Nestle Alpine White, classic rapper's delight All these shorties pullin' tools 'cause they know they can't fight I bank my selections on world wide connections So get the seven digits, baby, never burn your bridges CHORUS (2x) Aus Songtexte Mania