Damn nigga what's wrong wit you



[Ras Kass]



(I reign) I reign more cop than Johnny

Sippin' tanquery with o.j.

Sportin' bruno mali

Not guilty but filthy

Smellin' like Chritstian Dior

Infiniti QX4 gimme yours

Of course sinnin

Swimmin' in the abdomen of pretty women

Love to love ya like Timbaland

When in the endin

Like three strikes in the ninth inning

I rock satin boxers cotton socks and denim

The game he kick, special teams couldn't return

Got you wild like a texturizer

Burn like the ultra-perm, toss it up like a geyser

Sosa, kosher, 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

Love a 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 Kass] 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, baby-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

Undersexed 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

She got the liquor 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 cant get a slice if you don't bake the cake

To reverse trick

My silly ex-bitch 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, flowin

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

It's Clarence Thomas (fuck you Ras)

You promise

Then freak me, slightly below the hips

And blow me a kiss with your pussy lips

Get at me



chorus



Get at me