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• Artiste: Mike Capone
• Titre: Going Going Gone
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I got this mother fucker locked from Los Angeles, to New York City lit the grams and made that 7-27 on that 60 don't you come up in my zone and don't you come up in my home I'm flippin this switch and I'm slipping this clip in and ripping your mother fucking dome got-damn man, haters always set it off and I'm a be the first dispersing more than words to get this off my chest you second guess me, and you best believe I'm swinging with that SLOPPY WHITE BOY MUSIC kind of head ringing baybayyy I'm fuckin you up with this chronic and singing that heyyy heyyy we keepin it movin up on you and bringing that lately I'm adding these names to my hit list cause people don't dance no more all they do is diss but dissin' me is like just downright dogging the whole industry them cats in Tenessee they know you, and you aint' no friend to me pretend to be, these enemies they need to fucking lay low to the curb...them words'll leave you dead in San Diego I came close to catching them spokes but it was case-closed erase those...collect the intent, and seen his face froze and you know that I know just what you knew when he was swimming with that shark, and them piranahs him, and his momma sayonara saying... Tonight I'm riding, and I aint driving and where we're going I don't know and I don't care, and I'm not watching the road or the signs or the radio the clock and the windows up, and the chronic is lit and the track I got you movin' to, man this shit is sicker than a mother fucker pass it back, and let me let my eyes close I'm going...going...gone So now I'm back up on the block dodging haters, pop-hookers and cops I watch them spots for the knots cause they keep em' in stock I'm leavin the ground without a sound no movement tacked to the wall and if the dramas long distance fuck making a call I'm hitting cross country flights just to get in a fist fight with internet pussies now they begging to get right cause I aint' playing games and I aint' naming names aint' letting no lames gain a grain of my hard earned fame now mutha fucka I don't really really think you know, I'll do my best to show you don't be thinking cause I play this here piano, that I won't throw you across the room, and straight the fuck up out that window, that's where you'll go soon and buried in the cemetary with your kin-folks, and everybody who knows you man it's gotta be a bitch in that ditch in that rut that you're stuck in your mind can barely function, once you're brought up in discussion that concussion lasts a week, and maybe then so will the stitches I'm off into the city with yo bitch, and hitting switches saying... Tonight I'm riding, and I aint driving and where we're going I don't know and I don't care, and I'm not watching the road or the signs or the radio the clock and the windows up, and the chronic is lit and the track I got you movin' to, man this shit is sicker than a mother fucker pass it back, and let me let my eyes close I'm going...going...gone Tonight I'm riding, and I aint driving and where we're going I don't know and I don't care, and I'm not watching the road or the signs or the radio the clock and the windows up, and the chronic is lit and the track I got you movin' to, man this shit is sicker than a mother fucker pass it back, and let me let my eyes close I'm going...going...gone going...going...gone...gone Tonight I'm riding, and I aint driving and where we're going I don't know and I don't care, and I'm not watching the road or the signs or the radio the clock and the windows up, and the chronic is lit and the track I got you movin' to, man this shit is sicker than a mother fucker pass it back, and let me let my eyes close I'm going...going...gone Hold up, hey for my crackers that be thinkin I'm soft I don't, play fuck your mom until that ass falls off Hold up, hey for my crackers who be acting too bold Take a, seat fuck your momma in the next episode Hey...I fuck your mom everday.