In regards to the meaning of this song:
Before a live performance on the EP Five Stories Falling, Geoff states “It’s about the last time I went to visit my grandmother in Columbus, and I saw that she was dying and it was the last time I was going to see her. It is about realizing how young you are, but how quickly you can go.”
That’s the thing about Geoff and his sublime poetry, you think it’s about one thing, but really it’s about something entirely different. But the lyrics are still universal and omnipresent, ubiquitous, even. So relatable. That’s one thing I love about this band. I also love their live performances, raw energy and Geoff’s beautiful, imperfectly perfect vocals. His voice soothes my aching soul.
Whoo Ah ah, ayahh, ahh ahh ahh
And you don't stop, ahh ahh, word is bond, word is bond
Now introducing the sound from the ghetto
E Double and Too $hort, what the fuck you thought?
I come with the ruckus, It's My Thin'g when I swing
I'm Born to Mack, always strapped, with the black gat
Who out there I swear boy wanna get touched
Roll up, and catch a slug to the chest, so duck
I talk the talk, walk the walk, now nigga
Five hundred S drivin' with hand on trigger
Crazy Lestat, check my track record
Everything I touch is gold since eighteen years old
So what that mean? I roll the blunt
And puff the indo smoke in it, I trip in a minute
Crazy holy doctor holdin' me cuz I be rockin' B
Sewin' up like Monopoly, nobody's stoppin' me
Dig it, Funkdafied like Brat, how's that?
I stick and move on tracks while I smoke a twenty sack
Who said the E can't rock? That's bullshit
Suck my dick and get a big fat lick of my balls
You wanna brawl? Punk I thought not
You might get beat down and stomped like Sasquatch
Your girl, like Keith Sweat, I wanna fuck her
Psych, I already stuck her
I got rhymes to make your whole head swell up
Here's an icepack homeboy shut the hell up
I rock the mic with Too $hort, y'all niggaz know what's happenin'
Everything he touch goes platinum
Eyeah
I made a half a million in a week
And every nigga on the street got a tape playin' me
You can't believe it? Erick Sermon, rollin' with $hort
Rolled from California all the way to New York
in' big Benzes, G-50 up
Now we tryin'g to squash all that East/West stuff
We spent years in the studio makin' funky tracks
Signed a bunch of niggaz with some tight ass raps
It's like Father Dom, it's like Keith Murray
Makin' millionaires but it ain't no hurry
Cuz we all in it for the long run
I won't leave the studio until a song's done
And ain't nuthin' really hard about gettin' my cash
A big phat house with a million stash
You other niggaz got this rap game distorted
Givin' DATs to the label, straight gettin' shorted
Claim you're gettin' paid, but I can't tell
You keep rappin' in my ear got me mad as hell
You talk a good game but I don't believe in you
Be smokin' lotta blunts but I got more weed than you
I guess I see you on the charts in the meanwhile
Another face in the crowd plus some freestyle
Wishin' you could be in the light
Promoters pay me ten G's just to breathe on the mic
Bitch $hort Dawg puttin' it down with the E Double, in the house representing money
And you don't stop, ahh ahh, word is bond, word is bond
Now introducing the sound from the ghetto
E Double and Too $hort, what the fuck you thought?
I come with the ruckus, It's My Thin'g when I swing
I'm Born to Mack, always strapped, with the black gat
Who out there I swear boy wanna get touched
Roll up, and catch a slug to the chest, so duck
I talk the talk, walk the walk, now nigga
Five hundred S drivin' with hand on trigger
Crazy Lestat, check my track record
Everything I touch is gold since eighteen years old
So what that mean? I roll the blunt
And puff the indo smoke in it, I trip in a minute
Crazy holy doctor holdin' me cuz I be rockin' B
Sewin' up like Monopoly, nobody's stoppin' me
Dig it, Funkdafied like Brat, how's that?
I stick and move on tracks while I smoke a twenty sack
Who said the E can't rock? That's bullshit
Suck my dick and get a big fat lick of my balls
You wanna brawl? Punk I thought not
You might get beat down and stomped like Sasquatch
Your girl, like Keith Sweat, I wanna fuck her
Psych, I already stuck her
I got rhymes to make your whole head swell up
Here's an icepack homeboy shut the hell up
I rock the mic with Too $hort, y'all niggaz know what's happenin'
Everything he touch goes platinum
Eyeah
I made a half a million in a week
And every nigga on the street got a tape playin' me
You can't believe it? Erick Sermon, rollin' with $hort
Rolled from California all the way to New York
in' big Benzes, G-50 up
Now we tryin'g to squash all that East/West stuff
We spent years in the studio makin' funky tracks
Signed a bunch of niggaz with some tight ass raps
It's like Father Dom, it's like Keith Murray
Makin' millionaires but it ain't no hurry
Cuz we all in it for the long run
I won't leave the studio until a song's done
And ain't nuthin' really hard about gettin' my cash
A big phat house with a million stash
You other niggaz got this rap game distorted
Givin' DATs to the label, straight gettin' shorted
Claim you're gettin' paid, but I can't tell
You keep rappin' in my ear got me mad as hell
You talk a good game but I don't believe in you
Be smokin' lotta blunts but I got more weed than you
I guess I see you on the charts in the meanwhile
Another face in the crowd plus some freestyle
Wishin' you could be in the light
Promoters pay me ten G's just to breathe on the mic
Bitch $hort Dawg puttin' it down with the E Double, in the house representing money
Lyrics submitted by Mellow_Harsher
Buy You Some Lyrics as written by Erick S. Sermon Stuart Jordan
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
Lyrics powered by LyricFind
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