Crook N Porter - Crooked I

Dominick Senior let me tell you what the man’s about

I don’t dress weird and talk funny to stand out

You pushin quarters, petty hustlers get ran out

Put that quarter back in your pocket unless he Dan Fouts

True vision, I ride around on a food mission

Don’t get in the way of nutrition, my dude listen

The tool’s hidden, yeah I keep that wig splitter under my gat like a beautician

with a tooth missing

Green pieces of paper, weed trees from Jamaica

16 Bars, 16 keys and a scraper

These are the things that a street G see when he major

Tell the chef at Pappadeaux preseason my gator

I kick a flow off the loud, then I flow off the dome just to throw off the crowd

A nigga in his 30's ain’t no Mohawks allowed

Catch a ho off my smile

A gorilla lookin' nigga eating a banana in my Range Rover

Them snowbunnies smelling pheromones from a lane over

Ain’t no I in team, but it’s two «i's"in Wii

And when we go Black Ops nigga, game over

Kill em all until nothing is left homie

I do this while I’m chillin' with the cousin of death

Think I’m from Wu-Tang how I’m fuckin' with Meth

My crew slang, keep that under your breath, we move things

Moving top speed to the top we, you can not be serious nigga that you can stop

me

I don’t do what’s popular, I overlook you like a good view does the city

through some new binoculars

You gettin' money you can mob with us, I’m flashy like a shootout between 2

photographers

Still they call the security when Crook strolled in

I’m really just a deep thinker dressed in wolf’s clothing

I got a pulse but my wrist looks frozen

Fuck with me and death’s door is gettin' pushed open

Funny how a hater want to stop a nigga’s shine

Make me wanna grab the Glock, cock it, and pop it in his mind

Instead I’mma pour a shot, top it with some lime

I’m sippin' on vodka strong as Chewbaca in his prime

Thinkin' God forgive, He’s kind, so opposite of mine

So I’mma hit the grind til I’m the topic of the time

See I’m confident that competition’s hoppin' into line to fall victim to

apocalyptic rhymes

So poppin' shit is fine, not to my face, say it to my back

Cuz I’m ahead of you whack niggas, blame it on a fact

When your paper get jammed up, blame it on a fax

While I’m in Saks snatchin' everything hangin' on the racks

I used to reach out 'til my arm would get tired

I ain’t reachin' out no more, that offer expired

Matter of fact, this entire song is coffin inspired

Draw then I fire, you fell off, you lost the desire

Caught Alzheimers, forgot the lost art of the raw rhymer

G-shot, niggas all kinda small timers

This tune is an open wound to a salt miner

C.O.B we A Few Good Men like Rob Reiner

That’s why them hoes be on us when we with Mr. Porter

Told you we gettin' head or tail quick as you flip a quarter

Think of the best rappers alive from 5 to number 1

If I ain’t on the bottom then nigga switch the order

Stop the presses, hip-hop ain’t dead but it’s rockin' dresses

You got the message, from the Apex Predator