U-God - Fame lyrics

rate me

feat. Styles P

You know it’s all about 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


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


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


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


For the fame

For the fame

For the fame

For the fame

For the fame

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