J.R. Writer - Intro lyrics
[J.R. Writer - Intro lyrics]
Get it clear - hater, I'm here
Still Standing
Welcome to the tape of the year
Haze in the air
I done turned it up another notch
Bulbs in my ear
I done turned it up a couple watts
At the motherfucking spot -
Not the "motherfucking spot"
But, your mother's fucking spot
With the butter in the pots
I don't know why I come
Across humble when I'm not
Might have lost a couple rocks
But I'm up a couple blocks
Suckers need to stop, give me a break
Since '07 I've been getting
Six figures a tape
While you get what you take
I'm a bit overweight
Picking pounds up like I'm trying
To get into shape hundred grips in the safe
That's something you know nothing 'bout
So get in your place - my bad
I mean your mother's house
Huh, I laugh put up the right cash
And these corns want beef
I'mma crush 'em like hash
The hottest you know you gotta be slow
I'm still standing
Nothing like the Monica show the Dips split
And they wondering which side I'mma go
But, I don't pick sides
And the game's not to be told
I don't switch sides
Man - the game's got to be sold
I'm gonna let the Dip fly
Until they can't fly anymo'
No, ain't no one iller what up, Killa?
Ain't speak about two years but what up
Nigga? I'm still JR, aka AR
Bka "Who are you? You ain't on my radar"
Get it? This my play yard
And I don't want these pawns around
Play hard, I play you out - listen
This my stomping ground
I want the crown even though
That I'm a champion
You still buying Champions shit
I'm from Lionel Hampton
130th, burning piff with the burner grip
I don't need a burner to murder
This - I just murder it
I know you heard I'm sick, or if not
You heard I'm sick
And yeah, the flow from outer space
But I'm earthing this
How you sold grams? You ain't
Never served a brick
It's like you got no hands - you
Ain't got a bird to flip
I'm from the murder strip, hood life shady
Nah, I wasn't born a rapper -
The hood life made me
But lately, I've been in the hood like crazy
Put red marks on your head
You'll look like Baby, baby
I am great, skipping on the race
730, but what I meant
It's twenty minutes late
Niggas reckless, give the kid a break
Scott Tissue records
I'm shitting on your tapes
But hey I'm still lamping
Lex with the grill dancing
Still scrambling cause yes
I'm a real champion
Of course, come mess with a real cannon
You thought I fell off
Well welcome to Still Standing writer!
Still Standing
Welcome to the tape of the year
Haze in the air
I done turned it up another notch
Bulbs in my ear
I done turned it up a couple watts
At the motherfucking spot -
Not the "motherfucking spot"
But, your mother's fucking spot
With the butter in the pots
I don't know why I come
Across humble when I'm not
Might have lost a couple rocks
But I'm up a couple blocks
Suckers need to stop, give me a break
Since '07 I've been getting
Six figures a tape
While you get what you take
I'm a bit overweight
Picking pounds up like I'm trying
To get into shape hundred grips in the safe
That's something you know nothing 'bout
So get in your place - my bad
I mean your mother's house
Huh, I laugh put up the right cash
And these corns want beef
I'mma crush 'em like hash
The hottest you know you gotta be slow
I'm still standing
Nothing like the Monica show the Dips split
And they wondering which side I'mma go
But, I don't pick sides
And the game's not to be told
I don't switch sides
Man - the game's got to be sold
I'm gonna let the Dip fly
Until they can't fly anymo'
No, ain't no one iller what up, Killa?
Ain't speak about two years but what up
Nigga? I'm still JR, aka AR
Bka "Who are you? You ain't on my radar"
Get it? This my play yard
And I don't want these pawns around
Play hard, I play you out - listen
This my stomping ground
I want the crown even though
That I'm a champion
You still buying Champions shit
I'm from Lionel Hampton
130th, burning piff with the burner grip
I don't need a burner to murder
This - I just murder it
I know you heard I'm sick, or if not
You heard I'm sick
And yeah, the flow from outer space
But I'm earthing this
How you sold grams? You ain't
Never served a brick
It's like you got no hands - you
Ain't got a bird to flip
I'm from the murder strip, hood life shady
Nah, I wasn't born a rapper -
The hood life made me
But lately, I've been in the hood like crazy
Put red marks on your head
You'll look like Baby, baby
I am great, skipping on the race
730, but what I meant
It's twenty minutes late
Niggas reckless, give the kid a break
Scott Tissue records
I'm shitting on your tapes
But hey I'm still lamping
Lex with the grill dancing
Still scrambling cause yes
I'm a real champion
Of course, come mess with a real cannon
You thought I fell off
Well welcome to Still Standing writer!