Pooh-Man - Studio Gangster lyrics

* Aimed at Spice 1 "I've seen you on the street" "Where you from?" "From Oakland" "Nah, you're not from Oakland, I know Oakland" Let's take a ride with the boy from the Eastside Where nothing's a crime no roots to a bye-bye Tired of motherf**ers spitting nothing but drama rhymes Flapping his lips, and ain't never squeezed a nine Try to compete with me fool, you ain't competitive Stop claiming my town, before I give your a** a sedative Haymaker and uppercuts, hey n***a you weak as f** I'm hitting like Tyson, so fool what's up? You and your boys, you pop a whole lot of weak sh** Yelling "Pooh-Man is flapping" but he's f**ing your b**h Getting ganked by your manager, did for your cash That's what you get with your uneducated a** Pooh's the pistol-toting, dank-smoking, b**h-choking Young player from Oakland I was taught by O.G.'s fool, what you stressing? AK's, Mac 12's fool, Smith & Wessons You got the audacity to false claim where you be R.I.P. to S-P-I-C-E You wanna be down with my town but my town ain't down with ya clown So studio gangster put your motherf**ing mic down I'm coming for your a**, n***a, you're outta pocket Squeeze the trigger, eight ball in the corner pocket A lotta stories circulating round town Seems my peers in this business try to put me down He said this, she said that But you know where they talking that fool: behind my back Never had the guts to step up And my fans know that I can take a rhyme and change the flow Somewhat of a realist, cause I stay as real as this And all those other brothers can do is make a wish Huh, so I refuse to kiss they a** I got something better, motherf**er (gunshots) More and more I find myself in the media Or maybe on the screen for New Line Cinema Yeah, your lips are flapping but my bank is still stacking '93 and I ain't out to do nothing but keep taxing Punk-a** b**h, you slimy-a** worm When will you learn you only get what the f** you earn? I'm from the town of the motherf**ing Mack Even my b**h draws a big black gat, huh So all the talking you doing gets you nowhere, player The "Peace to My Nine" bullsh** I just couldn't bear Here's my Glock, listen to me co*k it The trigger is pulled, it's eight ball in the corner pocket I'm getting tired of my name used in a bad way Even though I ain't around, these fools got something to say Claim I'm a thug, I sell drug ficticious Man I'm telling you, these lies be vicious And these same motherf**ers be all in my face '93 I got the pop, and they all want a taste You see I'm out to get richer, in otherwords more cash Pooh be coming in first with these n***as coming in last So I take my nine and my sensor alarm And I straight go crazy and take his f**ing head off For being all in my f**ing mix You punk motherf**ing a** hoe-trusting b**h Yeah your partner pump you up, you throw your chest in the air And then you got the nerves to badmouth a player If I was you I'd shut my motherf**ing mouth Before my partner Little E blow your motherf**ing head off You want some funk n***a, well you got it It's like eight ball to the corner pocket