The Click
Get Chopped
[Intro: E-40]
Game must be focused
If you ain't got game you ain't got nathin'
(What you say?)
If you ain't got game you ain't got nathin'
Game (Then spit it)

A n***a spent his last to quadruple his cash
Hopin' that the plane wouldn't crash
Outsmarted the task by teachin' they a**
Bouts the other side of the gra**, ugh
I spits the truth from the soil, untold
See 3-40 in ya pager, that's the code
Hit me back even though he's busy off the hook
Plus the hurricane ethyl got him too took
Drug advancements, penitentiary chances
Circ*mstances, gigantic a** leave enhancements
Keep on mashin' though, don't quit
Game Related, comin' from the f**kin' Click

Now that I made the major leagues
Pushin' big ki's
N***as from my block ain't tryin' to see me
I came up too fast for them punks hoes
Now them fools wants to kick in my door
Bringin' over the change if you think that you can f**k with this
Bam, pops to the dome b*t*h
Motherf**kers hate to see a true n***a flamboast
Bringin' in more net than gross

They wants to kick in my spot
Boom, get chopped
They wanna take me for what I got
Boom, get chopped
They wants to strike through my block
Boom, get chopped
But I'm up on they plot
Boom, get chopped

B*t*h, feelin' evil like Knievel lookin' for a wrench
Gotta a couple screws loose like the grinch
Problem child ain't got no problem with disposin'
Lose me temper, lose me cool but on the same token
He ain't gon' bust a grape, E-40, mayne, that n***a fakin'
You fail-ize I'll have ya whole family wind taken
Paper hatin' haters get put in they place
Crevice achin', back and get scratched in the face
N***as from the other side of town be talkin' big sh*t
Actin' like they wanna f**k with my Click
But the sh*t ain't changed f**k the rap game
Hillside n***a on a mission to proclaim
My motherf**kin' spot in society
Southside n***as just jealous, they doubt me
Punk n***as lookin' for a reason
To kick off some ruckus to start the funk season


I f**ks b*t*h after b*t*h, n***a, get rich
Don't you know this The Click?
V the hundred SL's what a n***a straight smash
One hundred thousand in cash

Follow the leader, trip off how the game gets deeper
The more I teach 'em, the dumber I get
Dizzy-izzy, hey Shot, these tardy n***as kill me
But what they don't know is I fly their cerebral cortex like a Frisbee
F**k 'em and feed 'em
Pistol whip they a** and bleed 'em
Stuck 'em and read 'em
Find out where they snooze and sleep 'em
You pearl tongues need to stop workin' for them cops
Rat-heads don't get no props, BEOTCH!