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Artist: Armani of York
Album:  Child With a Gun
Song:   Crazy, Baby
Typed by: Vinyl and Gold Records


I'm a crazy mothafucka man ... 

Verse One:

Ride through the night
Too many victims in sight
Slidin' round with a piece, on a bike
Ain't no hidin' now, hit the ground
Hear the sound from the pound "tick-a-pow"
You fall down, sicker sounds
Come up out from my mouth
Kick it for the South 
But the North is my house
Used to sleep up on a couch
Smokin' all day, I'd find the weed in a drought
Fuck a bitch at a party, then bounce
Drinkin' mad liquor, but I'd rather smoke an ounce
Feelin' all twisted like a fuckin' tongue in my mouth
But I gotta go girl cuz I'm fuckin' burnin' out
And I don't need a bitch, know what I'm talking 'bout


I'm crazy, baby
I'm runnin' wild and you can't save me
I'm crazy, baby
We gettin' cash boy, don't be lazy

Verse Two:	

I'm lifted, get twisted
I'm runnin' round and I'm tryin' to find a biscuit
Murder, you can't earn the
Cash that we do dawg it don't concern ya
As a child, I never wore diapers
Feelin' comfortable, spittin' naked on a cypher
Chill with apparitions, I'm the best ghost writer
Hauntin' motherfuckers, can't see me in the night cuz
I'm probably suckin' blood, sleepin' with the vipers
And if there's snakes on a plane I'll get sent to rikers
Cuz I hate snitches and I hate fake cats
And I'm tryin to stay calm so I blaze that
Purple up in that cut, and I lay back
With a new bitch, dawg, tell her fuckin' play that
New Armani shit this the bounce in a jays hat
J's on my feet but I don't need to say that
Verse Three:

I'll burn you cats, then I'll furnish that
New couch of mine with ya skin so don't turn back
Your raps is wack, I keep the cash in stacks
Keep a burner on my hip, my dawg, imagine that
Pour gasoline on your bitch, fuck her strike a match
And watch your whole meaningless world, turn to black
Crazy young man puffin' big smoke stacks
Raised in pollution, and I wound up shootin'
Electrical volts through my veins, now I'm stupid
Tryin' to find a girl, but I think I murdered cupid
Bullets through the chest arrows never flew bitch
This ain't the new sound, this the new itch
Crack cocaine to your veins this the new blueprint
Murder on the block, 1-8-7 Music
The cops will never come, though I know it sounds stupid
They never served or protected, they always abused it