Kool Keith - Little Girls lyrics
[Kool Keith - Little Girls lyrics]
Yo Keith man i just turned off the TV man
Kids out there be thinkin they hardcore man
We gotta do somethin man, yo do it
Little girls think they're hardcore
You got nine cars, tons of champagne
By the cases
Two thousand people killed, fake murder cases
Videos exaggerate things you never make
Your style is all tissue
Chocolate fudge cream cake
The companies back you
People out there wanna slap you
Original fraud, funny with a mic cord
Persuadin kids that you hard
Every stage you tour
Cold scared you in a motel
You can't come out
After the show, with panties on
You hurry run out
You petrified hallucinatin thinkin hardcore
You got the style now
You have to roll with 50 people
Lookin hard and mean
You ain't pullin triggers
Did you pay your bodyguards, for actin hard?
You get pistol-whipped, booty tapped
Face scarred
Down and out, with camouflage gear
And no war you ain't in the army kid
Little girls think they're hardcore
Now your show's packed up, you're gassed up
I'm there you're scared
You just turned trois
Looked away feelin weird
You on the walkie talkie standin
Close near the door
Thinkin bout your records how you
Pop doo doo more
Posses wait in Texas, Detroit for the bumrush
You bringin rubber
Your crew is nervous smokin dust
You perpetrate your front, show your teeth
Smokin blunts
Rappers cancel shows, ran away with stunts
Your manager scared
With ghetto mugs starin at him
Your crew pressured more, to even act harder
You took New York, down South them folks
Wasn't havin that
Three kids from DC pulled out
What you laughin at?
You ran out, funny style, girl style
Panty style
Freestyle the same style last week
You was bitin off that kid Bo Peep
With no panties on, your rectum got torn
Rearranged, I caught you after the show
Naked out, butt out, cracked out
With two rolls of film
Tryin to sell pictures of your lover
With you, molestin your little brother
I smacked you and stole your pistols
Little girls think they're hardcore
Tommy, didn't I raise you to
Go to Catholic school?
But mom, I gotta keep this up
This is all a front
This is just gimmicks to sell my records
The people don't have to know
I mean really, that's just me
Even though we're soft
Me and my friends all of us
We just make money, that's all
It's a gimmick
Kids out there be thinkin they hardcore man
We gotta do somethin man, yo do it
Little girls think they're hardcore
You got nine cars, tons of champagne
By the cases
Two thousand people killed, fake murder cases
Videos exaggerate things you never make
Your style is all tissue
Chocolate fudge cream cake
The companies back you
People out there wanna slap you
Original fraud, funny with a mic cord
Persuadin kids that you hard
Every stage you tour
Cold scared you in a motel
You can't come out
After the show, with panties on
You hurry run out
You petrified hallucinatin thinkin hardcore
You got the style now
You have to roll with 50 people
Lookin hard and mean
You ain't pullin triggers
Did you pay your bodyguards, for actin hard?
You get pistol-whipped, booty tapped
Face scarred
Down and out, with camouflage gear
And no war you ain't in the army kid
Little girls think they're hardcore
Now your show's packed up, you're gassed up
I'm there you're scared
You just turned trois
Looked away feelin weird
You on the walkie talkie standin
Close near the door
Thinkin bout your records how you
Pop doo doo more
Posses wait in Texas, Detroit for the bumrush
You bringin rubber
Your crew is nervous smokin dust
You perpetrate your front, show your teeth
Smokin blunts
Rappers cancel shows, ran away with stunts
Your manager scared
With ghetto mugs starin at him
Your crew pressured more, to even act harder
You took New York, down South them folks
Wasn't havin that
Three kids from DC pulled out
What you laughin at?
You ran out, funny style, girl style
Panty style
Freestyle the same style last week
You was bitin off that kid Bo Peep
With no panties on, your rectum got torn
Rearranged, I caught you after the show
Naked out, butt out, cracked out
With two rolls of film
Tryin to sell pictures of your lover
With you, molestin your little brother
I smacked you and stole your pistols
Little girls think they're hardcore
Tommy, didn't I raise you to
Go to Catholic school?
But mom, I gotta keep this up
This is all a front
This is just gimmicks to sell my records
The people don't have to know
I mean really, that's just me
Even though we're soft
Me and my friends all of us
We just make money, that's all
It's a gimmick