CLIPSE - WE GOT IT FOR CHEAP VOL. 1

me and my mama son mookie
carry four-fives and we don't take no dookie
been selling that shit since the sidekick suzuki
fuck my first fiend, name was freebase lucy
sixteen, in trouble some, he was twenty one
hundred dollar kicks, i'm poppin bubble gum
now who the fuck is dumb?
like them talons can't reach ya and eat ya
and turn you to a negative six feet sleeper
so what ya dreamin bout? cut the dreamin out!
fuck from round me if you not what my scheme about
truckloads of coca, hoes in the sauna, me in the toga
king bracelets, rings and chokers
actin like i don't even know ya

that grounded balling from the first album, not even real grimy but just observant and real, i guess, picturing them getting down about how you do, taking pride in walking out in baggy expensive jacket and jeans and shoes still bright and stiff, not walked in yet, a hundred bucks in old twenties and tens you got to see taken out of wallets and pockets, going through the drive-thru for two cheeseburgers, six mcnuggets, mixing hpnotiq with half drank lime crush slurpee, smoking good weed, whatever, first video had pusha-t serving to rollups in front of a 7-11, surrounded by competition. before grindin checks came, pharrell ghostwriting checks, now talking about hundred, two hundred, three hundred thousand dollar cars with same observant realness. and the old focus: not even spitting about the game, really, not talking about moving a commodity like they do down south or the romance of street history like they do in new york, but coming with odes to the shit, poetic shit about how fiends shake and the mother of pearl shine on a pyramid of coke, sounding like they put more up their nose than on the block. gone, mostly, applying same to aspen hotel rooms and rolls-royce hood ornaments and blushing diamonds. and shoring up nasal whines with generic east coast muscle with punchlines. eh.