Kam - Every Single Weekend lyrics

(Beeper pager) beeps rings
"Ey man that's this nigga KAM paging me"
"No shit lets call that nigga
And see what he doing" "Hand me the phone"
"Got this old ass grandma on
The phone and shit" "Ah man come on"
"Somebody be breakin in your house
And break their fuckin
Neck every time you call
The paramedics and polices" "Shit"
"Ey turn the music down I can't really hear"
"Ey Hello Whassup?"
"Hello Whassup nigga? Whassup for
The weekend nigga?"

The weekend?!
That shit ain't nothin but another two days
That niggas act crazy on then it's gone
And everybody feel FUCKED UP THE ASS
Cause they spent they last
On shit that they wouldn't get
No other days of the week
"Why is that?" Because they too damn cheap
Been keepin the act up, for forty-eight hours
They weekend warriors, but weekday cowards
(punk)
All of a sudden, everybody got so much heart
You know some shit gots to start
But believe you me, between now and then
A gang of motherfuckers lives gon' end
But yo
If they lucky they will know how to get away
Then they'll live to punk out another day
But am I wrong when I say that?
"Hell nah, cause the homie don't play that"

And y'all know
It's happenin "every single weekend"
"shit happens" "every single weekend"
"shit happens" "every single weekend"
"shit happens ev-ver-ry day"

It's the same routine, every seven day period
The opposite sex, got us all doin weird shit
It's all about gettin credit, for bein that
Hell of a nigga
And so you slang for the putang
Figure it out
Cause see it's just for the skeezin
Ain't no other reason
And a season don't go by
That niggas don't show off
And break some laws so they
Can take some drawers home
Or straight perpetrate
All cause they learned wrong
Wearin beepers, that ain't even turned on
A fake Rolex, tryin to look like a star
A phony phone antenna on a rent-a-car
Wait, it don't stop with the men though
I know the same amount of hoes
Tradin ass for the indo
Tryin your best, but you can not fool me
Into thinkin that you rich
With no costume jewelry on

Ten and two, fingertips on the steering wheel
Sittin on the phonebook
Smellin like Clear-a-sil
A young boy's weekend on the Eastside
Caught the bus and came back with a G-ride
The little homies put the tank on E
So it's on one of y'all to rush another G
And now everybody knowin how he felt
Damn, here come one time
Put on y'all seatbelt
Heart beatin so hard they shakin
If one-time pull us over nigga I'm breakin
Cause they comin up fast in the rearview
So don't nobody lookin till the
Coast is clear too
They all on the ass like a tiger stalkin
Y'all put on the grin
And pretend we all talkin
And, if he don't sweat the rest is simple
Everybody hit his ass up out the window

Well this was strictly for
The underground parties
Who can relate, straight to all these events
The ones happenin, "every single weekend"
We all look alike, ain't nobody unique
When every little girl is a prostitute
And every nigga outside police gots to shoot
Because here, if a nigga ain't rappin
Then he must be affilaited
Slangin or kidnappin
But he trapped in a stereotype of bullshit
A full fifth, couldn't even save him from
And then you gave him a rope to hang with
Divide and conquer him with
All this gang shit
So for the streets I'mma close like this:
Fuck y'all, all that can kiss my
Skinny starvin po' short low-class
Stressed out fraggedy ghetto ass