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Artist: Crooked I
Album:  Apex Predator
Song:   Crook N Porter
Typed by: 

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

{"C'mon! C'mon!"}
Predator shit
{"C'mon! C'mon!"}