Carl "Butch" Small - Get At Me lyrics

Damn n***a, what's wrong wit you [Ras Ka**] (I ran) I ran more co*k than Johnny Sippin' Tanqueray with O.J Sportin' Bruno Magli Not guilty but filthy Smellin' like Christian Dior Infiniti QX4, gimme yours Of course, sinnin Swimmin' in the abdomen of pretty women "Luv 2 luv ya", like Timbaland When in the endin Like three strikes in the ninth inning I rock satin boxers, cotton socks and denim The game we kick, special teams couldn't return Got you wild like a texturizer Burn like the ultra-perm, toss it up like a geyser Soze, Costra nostra, like Keyser And got a thing for rehabilitating hood-rats Who keep their hair and nails done And they legs waxed I peep that, you got a man, but you want a homie-lover-friend My sentiments exactly Get at me Chorus [Karida Johnson] I like your style, can we kick it, oh wow Baby, so you can get at me [Ras Ka**] I got no game, It's just the women Understand my story I got a man, but we can still be friends So you can get at me, baby, bay-bay, baby Verse Two Some things make you happy just to be alive Like seeing Toni Braxton naked on the cover of the Vibe Drive, like hitting two-twenty-five In the pin with no spot I survive drama and then know when to lick shots Keep a top notch just a phone call away from my crotch Never brought sand to the beach Cause these streets is Baywatch (true) You know how we do Satin lingerie I see through Now she barely even kiss you Leaving 1-7-7-1-5-4-0-0 on my pager (I miss you boo) Your chicken-head wife was poultry Unders**ed and sultry That's the rhyme and reason why we committed adultery I swear, womens love from Bel-Air to welfare Chalkin' up these frequent flyer miles on Con-Air Her momma shoulda named her Casino You gotta lick her in the front Poke her in the rear Chorus Verse Three You know my steez though Dark skin and creole, "I'm 'Bout it" Just without the Master P dough But see though, my tax bracket decent and increasin Make no mistake You can't get a slice if you don't bake the cake To reverse trick My silly ex-b**h transport brick For twenty percent - commission She dressed up with no where to go While I'm blowin up your dress like Marilyn Monroe For show, at my girl party, flirting But I think she caught me like a nazi Now I'm servin', she got me under surveilence Like John Gotti, now I'm signin' on the low Actin' straight Illuminati Don't get mad, I'm only being honest As Clarence Thomas (f** you Ras) You promise? Then freak me, slightly below the hips And blow me a kiss with your p**y lips Get at me Chorus Get at me _________________________________________________________ DO YOU YAHOO!?