[Intro: Crooked I]
Yeah
Shouts out to Rollercoaster Rims
Shouts out to Dynasty Records
I'm the CEO
DJ Crooked (Yeah)
Yeah
Shouts out to Da Neckbones and Young Zee
Yeah
Yeah
Serve 'em

[Verse: Crooked I]
I love it when n***as is all poppin' shit, Crooked'll pop shit with ya
Pop in a clip, pop, pop, let a couple shots hit ya
No, I'm not Hitler, n***a, not rockin' a swastika
From my Glock, click a lot quicker than a racist cops trigger
One shot, rip you apart, watch your homie drop liquor
How could you not figure that I'd turn you to chop liver?
I sit in dark rooms like I'm a photographer, writin' your murder
Even in pitch black, I see further than most binoculars
Crooked, the popular philosopher, spittin' them writtens
Which is religious as the epigrapher
See, I'm on top of the game
Picture a n***a's neck pop in the vein
Kickin' the most prolific, horrific lyrics, I can arrange
I hit the block in a Range, same spot n***as get shot in the brains
Aim Glocks, no, I'm not finna change
I'm a skyscraper, my height is a vertical 9 acres
Under my Dodger hat, that's the metaphor for the fly vapor
'Cause the fly ideas that stick to the mind of this rhyme maker
Make me shine, like the rings on 5 combined Lakers
Show me the dopest brother you met, I'ma serve 'em
Put up a bubblegum colored 'Vette, to cover the bet
Crooked was raised on them government checks, the hood is Russian roulette
But I'm good, n***a, nothin' but love and respect
I can park the Denali, jump out with 50 carats in my medalli'
And take a piss in the darkest alley in Cali
It's Crooked, n***a
[Verse: Young Zee]
Uh
Mr. Porter
It's the Young
Brick (Smack)
Uh
What up, Crooked
Neckbones
Ah, ah
Ah, yeah
My dough like Joe, stack it like Jacksons
Garage door lift up, back the white Mack in
We both rich men, big cribs with four kitchens
Theatre, we can watch Pulp Fiction, Nicole Kidman
It's Young, we big dogs, y'all just paper soldiers
Your dreams of being that new Scarface is over
I fuck hoes and leave 'em, they stay mad at Zee ass
Pretty chicks that look like Cameron Diaz
Like the Passion of The Christ, my life straight out the bible
Thug life, brought to you, audio subtitle
You could jet in your house, in your room and runn-i-n'
AK shells go through aluminium sidin'
We like beef, I'm not a juvenile, ask for me
I drop it like it's hot, we the old Cash Money
If I get murked, I come back as Wyatt Earp
Tie dye your shirt, leave you by a pile of dirt
Bitch