Spoiled Rotten - Celph Titled

You better lock up the Bacardi at your party when the Zone roll through

In a fur coat that look like I killed the whole Bronx Zoo

ASPCA is outside my house, picketin'

Cause everything in my coat been previously livin'

Hoes ask why I cut my braids off (Trippin')

So I could look prep and pull Kate Moss bitches

But I don’t make babies (No)…I make beats

And got more juice than a hair salon in Compton in the late 80's

Back on the muthafuckin' set, Zone pass me the Glock

So I can blast and leave a hole the size of Flava Flav’s clock

But either niggas hate or they jock, you pay 'till you’re broke

We from the hood, where we beat our kids with cables and ropes

Load them hammers in the car before I bust back

Crash a bike in your face, and leave you with a handlebar mustache

Celph Titled fell off?

What made you think that?

I came here to downsize the game: no CD’s, just «shrink wrap»

I used to bang groupies like your sister, but I quit it for sure

«These girls are strictly for the money» «And your sister’s a whore!»

Nowadays I diss hoes, wantin' Zone to get Olympic

And strip clothes and broad jump with ten inches of limp dick

But what about Zone and your mama?

He threw his balls between her legs like he was playin' for the Globetrotters

Thinkin' you rock?

Y’all gets nothin'

Cause I talk trash, you collect it like Charles S. Dutton, muthafucka!

Rude!

Crude!

Spoiled!

Rotten!

J-Zone and Celph Titled ain’t nothin' but problems

Throw eggs at your favorite MC

Locate your face and then pee

So if you don’t like us, you can hum these nuts

We put foes in they place and then leave

(scratched)

«Rude…arrogant…entirely offensive»

«Look out America, here we come!»

I don’t care what Biggie said, I still dream of fuckin' Xscape

That big girl could find out, just how my third leg tastes

I like my pockets fat, and my bitches fatter

Up until I was ten, I thought my name was just «Little Bastard» (You little

bastard!)

Niggas rap to pay they bills, but never got cash

Catch you at the bar, I’m puttin' bullets through your shot glass

Knock your muthafuckin' Pro Tools off sequence

Y’all niggas is like Dr. Dre in '83: all sequins

(Hey J, when’s your video gonna be on TV?)

When the surveillance tape from KFC gets sent to BET

(J, I need my nails done) What?

«Dumb broad»

You’d have better luck at the White House, lookin' for a job

With a Jheri curl and shower cap on

Doin' a kid and play Kick Step with a crackhead on the front lawn

In a «All Hail Saddam» T-shirt, holdin' two Glocks

And C-Bo's Greatest Hits pumpin' from your boombox

«Let's go… bump it, I know you hear me comin'»

It’s time to oil up my jaw bone, and get ready for slick talk

O.G.

swagger, that’s the way this here spic walk

About to unleash a sleek metal hatchet (Why?)

Cause y’all sound faker than Alicia Keys' ghetto accent (Oh)

Get snapped in fragments and fed to lab rabbits

All I got is my balls, guns, and bad habits

Keep you paranoid, become a crabby sleeper

Cause I got you sniffin' more «'caine» than Big Daddy’s retriever