Artist: Crooked I Album: Apex Predator Song: Crook N Porter Typed by: Nickolye16@aol.com [Intro] Get ready Mr. Porter! {"C'mon! C'mon!"} Predator shit {"C'mon!"} [Crooked I] Dominick Senior, let me tell you what the man's 'bout I don't dress weird and talk funny to stand out You pushin quarters, petty hustlers get ran out Put that +quarter back+ in your pocket unless you Dan Fouts True vision, I ride around on a food mission Don't get in the way of my nutrition, my dude listen The tool's hidden - yeah I keep that wig splitter under my gat like a beautician with a tooth missin Green pieces of paper, weed trees from Jamaica 16 bars, 16 keys and a scraper These are the things that a street G see when he major Tell-tell the chef at Pappadeaux pre-season my gator Yeah, I kick a flow off the loud Then I flow off the dome just to throw off the crowd A nigga in his 30's, ain't no Mohawks allowed Catch a hoe off my smile! (heh) A gorilla-lookin nigga eatin a banana in my Range Rover Them snowbunnies smellin pheromones from a lane over Ain't no I in team, but it's two I's in Wii And when we go +Black Ops+ nigga game over Kill 'em all until nothin is left Homie I do this while I'm chillin with the cousin of death Think I'm from Wu-Tang how I'm fuckin with +Meth+, my crew slang Keep that under your breath, we move thangs Movin top speed, to the top we You can not be serious thinkin that you can stop me (NO) I don't do what's popular I overlook you like a good view does the city through some new binoculars You gettin money you can mob with us I'm flashy, like a shootout between two photographers Still they call the security when Crook strolled in I'm really just a deep thinker dressed in wolf's clothing I got a pulse but my wrist looks frozen Fuck with me and death's door is gettin pushed open Funny how a hater wanna stop a nigga's shine Make me wanna grab the Glock, cock it and pop him in his mind Instead I'ma pour a shot, top it with some lime I'm sippin on vodka strong as Chewbacca in his prime Thinkin God forgive his kind, so opposite of mine So I'ma hit the grind 'til I'm the topic of the time Still confident that competition's hoppin into line to fall victim to apocalyptic rhymes, so poppin shit is fine Not to my face, say it to my back Cause I'm ahead of you wack niggaz, blame it on a fact When your paper get jammed up, blame it on a fax While I'm in Saks snatchin everythang hangin on the racks I used to reach out 'til my arm would get tired I ain't reachin out no more, that offer expired Matter of fact, this entire song is coffin inspired Draw then I fire, you fell off, you lost the desire Caught Alzheimers, forgot the lost art of the raw rhymer G-Shock, niggaz all kinda small timers This tune is an open wound to a salt miner C.O.B., we +A Few Good Men+ like Rob Reiner That's why them hoes be on us when we with Mr. Porter Told you we gettin head or tail quick as you flip a quarter (yeah) Think of the best rappers alive from 5 to number 1 If I ain't on the bottom then nigga switch the order (YEAH!) Stop the presses - hip-hop ain't dead But it's rockin dresses, you got the message From the apex predator [Outro] {"C'mon! C'mon!"} Predator shit {"C'mon! C'mon!"}