The Game, Big Boi, E-40 - Speakers On Blast lyrics

It's not usual, the game be
All up on some South shit
Straight West Coasting
You can tell by my outfit
Red 'nati fitted, "Blood in
Blood out" shit
Empty jelly jars, nigga
Bird in the couch shit
The mad rapper, Oscar the Grouch shit
Except when I'm hopping out of cans
I'm pulling out shit
Dippin' the 4 though, double X 3-D Polo
If hip-hop was the league
I'd be the motherfuckin logo
Your last shit was so-so
You should sign to Jermaine
I've been hard since I was solo
Niggas feel my pain
I make it rain without the strippers
Go against the grain
And put your shit back like some clippers
I bang and then I hang out
At the Staples like Blake Griffin
You can tell I'm getting money the
Way that glass house is sitting
I mash out the strip then
Like Nas when I'm dippin
Feeling like God's Son
The way that It Was Written

Them boys want they music on blast
Don't turn me down
Turn me up every time them cops pass
Mashed on the gas, am I getting high
Don't even ask
Cause I got another ounce up in the stash
Them boys want they music on blast
Don't turn me down
Turn me up every time them cops pass
Mashed on the gas, am I getting high
Don't even ask
Cause I take 2 hit's, and then I pass

I see the cops in the rearview
Why can't a motherfucker chill in the car
Feelin' like Missy
Why you all up in my grill
They must know that I got bird
Stashed all up in my grill
Camouflage by the Armor All while
It's sparkling off my wheels
And I fuck hoes that pray
On Dwight Howard and Shaquille
Not them throwback rats they be
On showin' college hill
For real, I think my first album sold 5 mil'
And you say to yourself "He's broke"
Well how the hell am I ballin'
Like Spalding
I did a couple of movies
Now agents calling and calling
Can't get to the phone right now cause
Balls is all in this bitch mouth
When did we start taking these tricks out?
Now she gon' run her big
Mouth and tell her girlfriend
You had her all up in the wind
Blowing yo cheese on Louie Vuitton
And now that bitch is in the wind
And after the next draft
She gon' start that cycle again
How you claimin' that bitch
When she with him?
Come again cause

Daddy Fat Sax, my balls are on your chin
But can you tell me where my dick's at?
Come order ghetto, head hunter
Head buster through the chit-chat
I skip to the lou, my
Darling bring the thunder
I'm the lightning that strikes twice
Motherfucker, call me mass of
Cause I run the plantation and
I'm whooping niggas asses
If they disrespect the presentation
Below the Mason-Dixon
We facin' the basses that
Were missin' pimpin'
You can embrace it or come face
To face with total devastation
My mojo is never fadin'
I'm in my Optimus Prime transform
Switch it up, heat it up, speed it up
That means I'm gone
Like gears, ahead of your Buzz
Toy Story and club songs
Boy, gone, the A T-L-iens are phoning home
But I feel like a librarian
Cause style's are being' loaned
Out like books
A castle full of crooks, rape and pillage
They'll do anything for money
I bet misleading the village

Not from New England, but I pack a patriot
Not from Atlanta, but I got the cater
Not from Chicago, but I'm a bear
I'm a bay area nigga, 49er, Raider
I'm about my bread man, I ain't no sucker
Now these bitch ass niggas
Soft as table butter
I'm about my riches, magazines
Street hustler
You can ask your uncles, daddies, mothers
And your older brothers
But I used to flee through that yellow white
Sellin' that shit below the retail price
I'm a rare breed like the bike club
Get it right
Desperado like Tori Amos
Shout out to dynamite
I got my red cup, and some green
What kind of green you
Smoking pimp? Blue dream
My nigga let my hit that there hemp
Do your thing
How many woofers in your trunk? 4 15s