Letra de ' The Usual Suspects ' de Curren$y

Kushed God Bitch
Jonesie
Uh
Sometimes you just need to be serenaded with the instrumental
183rd shit
Uh
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight

Cookin' up a batch
Ladies show they titties
Real niggas tip they caps
Real trappers
For my hustler niggas with no choice
Posting up slanging that oh boy
Stay on your grind, only way to turn a 300 to a Rolls Royce
Life is good, nah, life is great, now I'm bout to get my niggas straight
God bless a nigga with some legal ones so I can stay off the interstate
Not everybody getting money, not everybody selling out shows
Not everybody toured the world like 4 times, 3 albums in stores, uh
From Australia up to Montauk I kill em with the Don talk
And when it comes to this indie bread, I'm the hip hop Thom Yorke
I'm too real for the radio heads, I'm an underground king
But these bitches can't stop my show and that's word to the Pimp
Low eating lobster and shrimp, all the bad bitches want to link
I'm like fuck with a real nigga and stop feeling bad for that simp
That's the other species, come sip some of this PJ
And smoke some of this sweet tree and everything will be geetchi
DZA

I told your bitch like Alex Rawls
Mister Jones, full riding laws
Pop my calls in a ride with paws
Got a lot of nines got a lot of fours
I'm a lane ward man got a lot of goals
Know how to get the kitchen like a lot of O
Know when to burn out, before it's time to go
I'm a highlight real so rewind it ho
Pick them up, out the pound
Lighting up every time the Saints get a first down
Hold the flow so you can show us right now
You can get a purse and some work right now
This mack hand ho, don't get the back hand
She change ghosts like Ms. Pacman
He paid a ho to come back fam
God damn!

They respect the don
18 karats with the red rubies and Piguets is on
Platinum Rolex, double roll bezel and walk around with Alexis on
Courtside in my concourse
With my niggas wiling out smoking out tours
Life's about choices, got to make yours
The right set of keys open up the right doors
Trying to turn a little something to a lot more
You gotta go a little further than you won't go
It's like a hundred out there had enough blow
I'm talking enough blow to make it be-low, ze-ro
I'm the underdog's he-ro
To that dope boy, praying for a kilo
To the little nigga praying for a way out
Keep your head up shorty we gonna make it out
Made it out now
Hella stamps in my passport
Overseas airport
Coming through the hood up in foreign cars
Bitch letting the weed flow
I'm hood rich, I can't change ho
Meeting smelling like weed smoke
Negotiate my record deal like a dope deal
Probably why a nigga take like a ki of dope
Nigga you need a plug

Uh
Top soft, but I grind hard to afford
To weld them switches to my dashboard
Lowriders and all, exotics to nascars
Amongst all these stars, seven grams in the raw
That's a Grammy award, in my granddaddy car
With my granddaddy Kangol, higher than a halo
Sliced like tomato, with precision on them blades ho
It don't go down until he say so
Extra cheese, hold the mayo
Got stacks in San Diego, now I'm hiding out
Large amounts to count, just fill them duffle bags and weigh them
Spitta slayed them, no Santa
She's thirsty, get a Fanta
Bitch passing out, somebody's Phantom

Drive-In Theatre
Fuck you thought this was