[Verse: Jim Jones]
They say my syndrome is post-traumatic
And on them cold nights I sold the coke to addicts
And I tried to play ball, but they can't coach a savage
When the streets made a call, I had the toast for static
Then I froze the Patek, I got the grossest habits
In the club I keep spittin' champagne out, the cleaner said "Jim, it's hard gettin' the stains out"
I said "Fuck it, I'll never wear it again". That's word on my mama, you'll never hear this again
Now a n***a livin', you see my Lear in the wind
I tell them n***as stop it, you can't compare them to Jim
I hop out the cockpit, smellin' like a champ
We made somе extra points, we was sellin' that work damp
You could tеll from the stamp, we was getting them blocks and I
Whipped my car southpaw like a n***a was boxin', I
Get em on options. I give a fuck if the bitch through hoppin'
I tell em "Baby, I'm poppin'"
White people doing researches on, same blocks that the cops used to do searches on
I pump bass like this beat that I put a verse on, uh
And we never met Bumpy Johnson, but I know some n***as that used to pump in Johnson
Riding shotta used to pop out with the pump like Bronson, I'm gone...