U-God - Fame lyrics
rate mefeat. Styles P
You know it’s all about fame
Fame
You know it’s all about fame
I’m a winner in my book
Made cuisine, in the kitchen, the fly cook
In the air like a rim in a skyhook
Deaf jock, my left hook
This is easy work
It’s the mic mechanics
See the greasy shirt
This is easy perks
Follow two steps dot on the chopper
My bitch know GQ
Manolo boots keep cursin’ at the hustlers
How you gonna get loo?
You’re cursing at the coarseness
No sales, you better have my cash
The feds don’t grab me, I got lots of plans
I need balls, the all star cash
In the leadin roll, call it cruise control
Every day is shakable, everything is payable
No tings in my armor, I’m feeling unbreakable
Swimming through the shark tank
I’m top rank for the
Fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
I’m an all, I draw ink
Resemble war tank, the grass chopper
Spilling up more drink
What would I do, I think of ways to smash’em
Eyes on me, I throw the anthem
Raise that green lantern, in the green fathom,
Joke of the town, don’t he love handsome
Your little league, you only made your dad
To take over
I’m passing European checks
Brush you teeth
I’m your early morning toothache
Stop the ropes, this is how I...
Cotton candy, hot sip and brandy
Pass me my suitcase, these skinny fans fruitcake
Listen to the gram when it’s mixed with cram
I’m dosing on my ramble
You stoking on my time
From the fowl line back to the huddle
Right tracks on the bullet train
To the shuttle
Fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
Raised by wolves like the book back of Ario
Did a lot of dirt but never would say sorry though
Wild like the lamb boys down in El Barrio
Crimp on the jokes, then you’d better do your cardio
Run to ‘em and run from ‘em
He’s a killer so you can’t take his gun from him
He bad coat so his hands feel nothing from him
He’s a cold hearted bastard, better dumb dumb him
Probably a 45, my job is making sure
If they violate the big mandalo or shorty ride
Out in there stretching in the ambulance
We ain’t left the ham gram
But niggers moving grams on the hand to hand
If I’m talking snow what’s the avalanche?
I ain’t thinking of rap but catch me in a battle stamp
Yeah it’s the ghost motherfucker
Guns rappers and blunts yeah smoke
Motherfuckers
Think Imma rope range
The killer here red bone
Put that on my hash stone
You see the jem stone
Call it in the end zone
Headphones, Dr. Dre, your new sensation
Yeah I got a lot to say
You’d better speak
So misunderstood
Let her speak
The new voice in the hood, never had to hide
Always had the heart keep it simple and sharp
And I land on the sharks for the
Fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
For the fame
