Vic Spencer - Profound lyrics

rate me

Rappin’, rappin’, rappin’, rappin’

The chicken is baked, the beef is fried

Sticky situations like beehives demolish these guys

We ride on our enemies

Especially if they look like mini-me’s

Do that every day from like 2 to 3

One show makes it sorta like a work shift

Fuck all that hoe shit, you don’t even know what work is

Try hitting the booth right after your baby is born

Or after your chick just cussed you out for numerous times, she was scorned

I drove hella times, not ashamed to take that route

I’d rather sleep at the table than sleep on the couch

I was writing, not relaxing

Got enough bread to spend it and stack it

Being grown is like magic

The real niggas don’t exist

If they do, find one that don’t be hoping dicks

That would slim the list down

Regardless of how you think this shit sounded

It’s heavier than a George Forman fist pound

Work it down, arch it in a triple fat goose parker

Play my shit and play theirs, who’s harder?

It’s not about the fan base, it’s not about the money

It’s about rapping harder and fucking hundreds of the rap dummies

Rap is a gift, I speak Christmas, I speak, friends listen

That’s the meaning of long distance

Rapping bastard steady rapping his ass off

From my death bed I pull a plug, I still kill ‘cause I’m that raw

Record, you getting punished, now that shit viral

That’s just like Jigsaw, the doll with the spiral eyes

Do wrong, you deserve to get pulverized

Try getting sacked by an older guy

Pro nigga on a retarded bus

The only difference, I’m driving all the slow motherfucks

My bars is the ultimate Mac truck

Back up before I knock you to where you can’t get back up

Big glass, cognac, sipping out the fifth glass

Came with the BMW to tempt that

Say Oklahoma, they exempt tax

Maybe send a nigga six packs and miss that cruel and unusual

Started on the third floor,…party with them dumb fucks, music as usual

…I would pray them on the low, I would duck them from the windows

Praying at the door

I would bag it up the country, you were posted by the store

Now everybody knew me, knew me, I ain’t even known

And since we talk about this rapping, I probably should matter

I drop more than three or four glass since I got them

I got more than three or four bastards

You gonna need three or four caskets

I’m a G, yeah, you don’t even need to ask us

In this movie I was king when they cast them

Pops used to chastise them

I was 15, no ales, just riding

I was 16, 4 L’s riding

Now it’s big things, wheels in the harbor

I got my shit straight, mailed in my barber

Put the babies in the spill, let them have it

Caught that pistol at the deal with them charges

Benz rides never chill with the starters…

I do it for the homies without fathers

But still would fuck a dumb bitch on the carpet