[{"id":23601291,"name":"War","trackName":"War","artistName":"Cam'Ron","albumName":"Killa Season","duration":231.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yea this sound like a movie right here\nWell fuck it, here go the soundtrack!\nBullets and guns moke! Dipset!\nNow\nIf we was playing pro-ball, every game I'd be slamming on 'em\nStep on my competition, yeah duke I'm standing on them\nI ran up on 'em, pussy ain't have his hammer on him\nPulled the cannon on 'em, blammed it on 'em, 'til I jammed it on 'em\nI got some a-rab's hitting me with coke\nAnd when we on the phone we be speaking in some codes\nA camel is an ounce, a kufi is a brick\nTell him I need five kufis, and meet me on the strip\nYeah I know \"stafalla\", but I'm tryna cop some cars\nRun up in the club that's popping and cop the bar\nAnd everything I hear is garbage to me\nYou know where I be fagot, bring the drama to me\nI'm presidential nigga, Bush'll pay homage to me\nI'm putting in a lot of work man acknowledge a g\nYes, yes, a g I am, holla if you need some grams\nI'm poppin' off by myself I don't need no cam\nI don't need you Jim, Juelz I got these niggas\nI don't care if they small or some stocky niggas\nI just grace 'em then erase 'em, I forgot these niggas\nWhat they name again? What they claim again?\nYeah these fagots hated, 'cause I'm they rappers favorite\nYou procrastinated so I got you assassinated\nShoot 'em up, bang bang, bullets in his red monkey's\nThought he was a gorilla? Nah, he a dead monkey\n[Chorus: x2]\nWe blastin' big tecs (tecs!)\nCashin' big checks (ch-ching!)\nNigga's talking right? I ain't heard shit yet! (nope!)\nWe'll leave the dude flooded, and his bitch wet (wet)\nAnd the kids go \"look dad Dipset!\"\nDipset!\nIf this was football, I'd be scoring touchdowns (touchdown!)\nIt's the circus though, I see some tough clowns (clowns)\nI don't need you Rell (nope), nor duke da god (no duke)\nNo forty or J.R., I go stupid hard (stupid hard!)\nWhat you dealing pops? How you feeling 'ock? (how you feel?)\nMy floors come up, walls spin, ceiling drop (drop!)\nNot the crib that's the car when I wheel or not (not a house)\nPlus a partition bath, bar, kitchen\nYeah, pa' shittin' (shitting), they say y'all didn't (yes we did!)\nEvery car driven yeah from hard living (hard living)\nHang with Mariah, spent the night with Vivica\nEvery tabloid asking cam \"what you did with her\"? (did with her?)\nJust friends dog, \"word to eveerything\"?\nYes, word to everything now focus on this heavy bling\nEat at Reyo's fettiucini, spaghetti things\nCheddy heavy so fuck being some petty king (fuck all that)\nCan't be nice right? Can't be arrogant\nI stab a bitch over ice, \"Nancy Kerrigan\"\nSlash Tonya Harding, see the mobster's mobbing\nYou don't like us right? we got ya momma boppin' (true)\nShe look like Amy Fisher, \"don't the range be bigger\"? (usually)\nThat's a baby mama car you can't game me nigga\nMy Royce a quarter mill, chain a half a mill\nEarrings another three quarter mill, you ought to chill","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: War\n  artist: Cam'Ron\n  album: Killa Season\n  duration_ms: 231000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yea this sound like a movie right here\n  Well fuck it, here go the soundtrack!\n  Bullets and guns moke! Dipset!\n  Now\n  If we was playing pro-ball, every game I'd be slamming on 'em\n  Step on my competition, yeah duke I'm standing on them\n  I ran up on 'em, pussy ain't have his hammer on him\n  Pulled the cannon on 'em, blammed it on 'em, 'til I jammed it on 'em\n  I got some a-rab's hitting me with coke\n  And when we on the phone we be speaking in some codes\n  A camel is an ounce, a kufi is a brick\n  Tell him I need five kufis, and meet me on the strip\n  Yeah I know \"stafalla\", but I'm tryna cop some cars\n  Run up in the club that's popping and cop the bar\n  And everything I hear is garbage to me\n  You know where I be fagot, bring the drama to me\n  I'm presidential nigga, Bush'll pay homage to me\n  I'm putting in a lot of work man acknowledge a g\n  Yes, yes, a g I am, holla if you need some grams\n  I'm poppin' off by myself I don't need no cam\n  I don't need you Jim, Juelz I got these niggas\n  I don't care if they small or some stocky niggas\n  I just grace 'em then erase 'em, I forgot these niggas\n  What they name again? What they claim again?\n  Yeah these fagots hated, 'cause I'm they rappers favorite\n  You procrastinated so I got you assassinated\n  Shoot 'em up, bang bang, bullets in his red monkey's\n  Thought he was a gorilla? Nah, he a dead monkey\n  [Chorus: x2]\n  We blastin' big tecs (tecs!)\n  Cashin' big checks (ch-ching!)\n  Nigga's talking right? I ain't heard shit yet! (nope!)\n  We'll leave the dude flooded, and his bitch wet (wet)\n  And the kids go \"look dad Dipset!\"\n  Dipset!\n  If this was football, I'd be scoring touchdowns (touchdown!)\n  It's the circus though, I see some tough clowns (clowns)\n  I don't need you Rell (nope), nor duke da god (no duke)\n  No forty or J.R., I go stupid hard (stupid hard!)\n  What you dealing pops? How you feeling 'ock? (how you feel?)\n  My floors come up, walls spin, ceiling drop (drop!)\n  Not the crib that's the car when I wheel or not (not a house)\n  Plus a partition bath, bar, kitchen\n  Yeah, pa' shittin' (shitting), they say y'all didn't (yes we did!)\n  Every car driven yeah from hard living (hard living)\n  Hang with Mariah, spent the night with Vivica\n  Every tabloid asking cam \"what you did with her\"? (did with her?)\n  Just friends dog, \"word to eveerything\"?\n  Yes, word to everything now focus on this heavy bling\n  Eat at Reyo's fettiucini, spaghetti things\n  Cheddy heavy so fuck being some petty king (fuck all that)\n  Can't be nice right? Can't be arrogant\n  I stab a bitch over ice, \"Nancy Kerrigan\"\n  Slash Tonya Harding, see the mobster's mobbing\n  You don't like us right? we got ya momma boppin' (true)\n  She look like Amy Fisher, \"don't the range be bigger\"? (usually)\n  That's a baby mama car you can't game me nigga\n  My Royce a quarter mill, chain a half a mill\n  Earrings another three quarter mill, you ought to chill\n"},{"id":314224,"name":"War (feat. Hell Rell)","trackName":"War (feat. Hell Rell)","artistName":"Cam’ron","albumName":"Killa Season","duration":231.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Hell Rell)\nYea this sound like a movie right here\nWell fuck it, here go the soundtrack!\nBullets & Gunsmoke! DIPSET!\n\n(Hell Rell)\nNow...\nIf we was playing pro-ball, every game I'd be slamming on 'em\nStep on my competition, yeah Duke I'm standing on them\nI ran up on 'em, pussy ain't have his hammer on him\nPulled the cannon on 'em, blammed it on 'em, 'til I jammed it on 'em\nI got some A-rab's hitting me with coke\nAnd when we on the phone we be speaking in some codes\nA camel is an ounce, a kufi is a brick\nTell him I need 5 kufis, and meet me on the strip\nYeah I know \"Stafalla\", but I'm tryna cop some cars\nRun up in the club that's popping and cop the bar\nAnd everything I hear is garbage to me\nYou know where I be faggot, bring the drama to me\nI'm Presidential nigga, Bush'll pay homage to me\nI'm putting in alot of work man acknowledge a G...\nYes, yes, a G I am, holla if you need some grams\nI'm poppin off by myself I don't need no Cam\nI don't need you Jim, Juelz I got these niggaz\nI don't care if they small or some stocky niggaz\nI just grace 'em then erase 'em, I forgot these niggaz...\nWhat they name again?...What they claim again?\nYeah these faggots hated, cause I'm they rappers favorite\nYou procrastinated so I got you assasinated\nShoot 'em up, bang bang, bullets in his Red Monkey's\nThought he was a gorilla? Nah, he a dead monkey\n\n(Hook 2X: Cam'Ron)\nWE BLASTIN' BIG TECS (TECS!)\nCASHIN' BIG CHECKS (CH-CHING!)\nNIGGA'S TALKING RIGHT?...I AIN'T HEARD SHIT YET! (NOPE!)\nWE'LL LEAVE THE DUDE FLOODED, AND HIS BITCH WET (WET)\nAND THE KIDS GO...\"LOOK DAD DIPSET!\"\n\n(Cam'Ron)\nDIIIIPSET!\nIf this was football, I'd be scoring touchdowns (TOUCHDOOOWN!)\nIt's the circus though, I see some tough clowns (clowns)\nI don't need you Rell (nope), nor Duke Da God (no Duke)\nNo 40 or J.R, I go stupid hard (stupid hard!)\nWhat you dealing pops? How you feeling 'ock? (how you feel?)\nMy floors come up, walls spin, ceiling drop (DROP!)\n\nNot the crib that's the car when I wheel or not (not a house)\nPlus a partition... bath, bar, kitchen\nYeah, pa' shittin (shitting), they say y'all didn't (YES WE DID!)\nEvery car driven... yeah from hard living (hard living)\nHang with Mariah, spent the night with Vivica\nEvery tabloid asking Cam \"what you did with her\"? (did with her?)\nJust friends dog, \"word to eveerything\"?\nYES, word to everything now focus on this heavy bling\nEat at Reyo's... Fettucini, Spaghetti things\nCheddy heavy so fuck being some petty king (fuck all that)\nCan't be nice right? Can't be arrogant\nI stab a bitch over ice, \"Nancy Kerrigan\"\nSlash Tonya Harding, see the mobster's mobbing\nYou don't like us right? We got ya momma boppin' (true)\nShe look like Amy Fisher, \"don't the Range be bigger\"? (usually)\nThat's a baby mama car you can't game me nigga\nMy Royce a quarter mill, chain a half a mill\nEarrings another 3 quarter mill, you ought to chill\n\n(Hook)","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: War (feat. Hell Rell)\n  artist: Cam’ron\n  album: Killa Season\n  duration_ms: 231000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Hell Rell)\n  Yea this sound like a movie right here\n  Well fuck it, here go the soundtrack!\n  Bullets & Gunsmoke! DIPSET!\n\n  (Hell Rell)\n  Now...\n  If we was playing pro-ball, every game I'd be slamming on 'em\n  Step on my competition, yeah Duke I'm standing on them\n  I ran up on 'em, pussy ain't have his hammer on him\n  Pulled the cannon on 'em, blammed it on 'em, 'til I jammed it on 'em\n  I got some A-rab's hitting me with coke\n  And when we on the phone we be speaking in some codes\n  A camel is an ounce, a kufi is a brick\n  Tell him I need 5 kufis, and meet me on the strip\n  Yeah I know \"Stafalla\", but I'm tryna cop some cars\n  Run up in the club that's popping and cop the bar\n  And everything I hear is garbage to me\n  You know where I be faggot, bring the drama to me\n  I'm Presidential nigga, Bush'll pay homage to me\n  I'm putting in alot of work man acknowledge a G...\n  Yes, yes, a G I am, holla if you need some grams\n  I'm poppin off by myself I don't need no Cam\n  I don't need you Jim, Juelz I got these niggaz\n  I don't care if they small or some stocky niggaz\n  I just grace 'em then erase 'em, I forgot these niggaz...\n  What they name again?...What they claim again?\n  Yeah these faggots hated, cause I'm they rappers favorite\n  You procrastinated so I got you assasinated\n  Shoot 'em up, bang bang, bullets in his Red Monkey's\n  Thought he was a gorilla? Nah, he a dead monkey\n\n  (Hook 2X: Cam'Ron)\n  WE BLASTIN' BIG TECS (TECS!)\n  CASHIN' BIG CHECKS (CH-CHING!)\n  NIGGA'S TALKING RIGHT?...I AIN'T HEARD SHIT YET! (NOPE!)\n  WE'LL LEAVE THE DUDE FLOODED, AND HIS BITCH WET (WET)\n  AND THE KIDS GO...\"LOOK DAD DIPSET!\"\n\n  (Cam'Ron)\n  DIIIIPSET!\n  If this was football, I'd be scoring touchdowns (TOUCHDOOOWN!)\n  It's the circus though, I see some tough clowns (clowns)\n  I don't need you Rell (nope), nor Duke Da God (no Duke)\n  No 40 or J.R, I go stupid hard (stupid hard!)\n  What you dealing pops? How you feeling 'ock? (how you feel?)\n  My floors come up, walls spin, ceiling drop (DROP!)\n\n  Not the crib that's the car when I wheel or not (not a house)\n  Plus a partition... bath, bar, kitchen\n  Yeah, pa' shittin (shitting), they say y'all didn't (YES WE DID!)\n  Every car driven... yeah from hard living (hard living)\n  Hang with Mariah, spent the night with Vivica\n  Every tabloid asking Cam \"what you did with her\"? (did with her?)\n  Just friends dog, \"word to eveerything\"?\n  YES, word to everything now focus on this heavy bling\n  Eat at Reyo's... Fettucini, Spaghetti things\n  Cheddy heavy so fuck being some petty king (fuck all that)\n  Can't be nice right? Can't be arrogant\n  I stab a bitch over ice, \"Nancy Kerrigan\"\n  Slash Tonya Harding, see the mobster's mobbing\n  You don't like us right? We got ya momma boppin' (true)\n  She look like Amy Fisher, \"don't the Range be bigger\"? (usually)\n  That's a baby mama car you can't game me nigga\n  My Royce a quarter mill, chain a half a mill\n  Earrings another 3 quarter mill, you ought to chill\n\n  (Hook)\n"},{"id":29742568,"name":"War (feat. Hell Rell)","trackName":"War (feat. Hell Rell)","artistName":"Cam'ron","albumName":"Who Else But Us?","duration":142.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Hell Rell)\nYea this sound like a movie right here\nWell fuck it, here go the soundtrack!\nBullets & Gunsmoke! DIPSET!\n\n(Hell Rell)\nNow...\nIf we was playing pro-ball, every game I'd be slamming on 'em\nStep on my competition, yeah Duke I'm standing on them\nI ran up on 'em, pussy ain't have his hammer on him\nPulled the cannon on 'em, blammed it on 'em, 'til I jammed it on 'em\nI got some A-rab's hitting me with coke\nAnd when we on the phone we be speaking in some codes\nA camel is an ounce, a kufi is a brick\nTell him I need 5 kufis, and meet me on the strip\nYeah I know \"Stafalla\", but I'm tryna cop some cars\nRun up in the club that's popping and cop the bar\nAnd everything I hear is garbage to me\nYou know where I be faggot, bring the drama to me\nI'm Presidential nigga, Bush'll pay homage to me\nI'm putting in alot of work man acknowledge a G...\nYes, yes, a G I am, holla if you need some grams\nI'm poppin off by myself I don't need no Cam\nI don't need you Jim, Juelz I got these niggaz\nI don't care if they small or some stocky niggaz\nI just grace 'em then erase 'em, I forgot these niggaz...\nWhat they name again?...What they claim again?\nYeah these faggots hated, cause I'm they rappers favorite\nYou procrastinated so I got you assasinated\nShoot 'em up, bang bang, bullets in his Red Monkey's\nThought he was a gorilla? Nah, he a dead monkey\n\n(Hook 2X: Cam'Ron)\nWE BLASTIN' BIG TECS (TECS!)\nCASHIN' BIG CHECKS (CH-CHING!)\nNIGGA'S TALKING RIGHT?...I AIN'T HEARD SHIT YET! (NOPE!)\nWE'LL LEAVE THE DUDE FLOODED, AND HIS BITCH WET (WET)\nAND THE KIDS GO...\"LOOK DAD DIPSET!\"\n\n(Cam'Ron)\nDIIIIPSET!\nIf this was football, I'd be scoring touchdowns (TOUCHDOOOWN!)\nIt's the circus though, I see some tough clowns (clowns)\nI don't need you Rell (nope), nor Duke Da God (no Duke)\nNo 40 or J.R, I go stupid hard (stupid hard!)\nWhat you dealing pops? How you feeling 'ock? (how you feel?)\nMy floors come up, walls spin, ceiling drop (DROP!)\n\nNot the crib that's the car when I wheel or not (not a house)\nPlus a partition... bath, bar, kitchen\nYeah, pa' shittin (shitting), they say y'all didn't (YES WE DID!)\nEvery car driven... yeah from hard living (hard living)\nHang with Mariah, spent the night with Vivica\nEvery tabloid asking Cam \"what you did with her\"? (did with her?)\nJust friends dog, \"word to eveerything\"?\nYES, word to everything now focus on this heavy bling\nEat at Reyo's... Fettucini, Spaghetti things\nCheddy heavy so fuck being some petty king (fuck all that)\nCan't be nice right? Can't be arrogant\nI stab a bitch over ice, \"Nancy Kerrigan\"\nSlash Tonya Harding, see the mobster's mobbing\nYou don't like us right? We got ya momma boppin' (true)\nShe look like Amy Fisher, \"don't the Range be bigger\"? (usually)\nThat's a baby mama car you can't game me nigga\nMy Royce a quarter mill, chain a half a mill\nEarrings another 3 quarter mill, you ought to chill\n\n(Hook)","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: War (feat. Hell Rell)\n  artist: Cam'ron\n  album: Who Else But Us?\n  duration_ms: 142000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Hell Rell)\n  Yea this sound like a movie right here\n  Well fuck it, here go the soundtrack!\n  Bullets & Gunsmoke! DIPSET!\n\n  (Hell Rell)\n  Now...\n  If we was playing pro-ball, every game I'd be slamming on 'em\n  Step on my competition, yeah Duke I'm standing on them\n  I ran up on 'em, pussy ain't have his hammer on him\n  Pulled the cannon on 'em, blammed it on 'em, 'til I jammed it on 'em\n  I got some A-rab's hitting me with coke\n  And when we on the phone we be speaking in some codes\n  A camel is an ounce, a kufi is a brick\n  Tell him I need 5 kufis, and meet me on the strip\n  Yeah I know \"Stafalla\", but I'm tryna cop some cars\n  Run up in the club that's popping and cop the bar\n  And everything I hear is garbage to me\n  You know where I be faggot, bring the drama to me\n  I'm Presidential nigga, Bush'll pay homage to me\n  I'm putting in alot of work man acknowledge a G...\n  Yes, yes, a G I am, holla if you need some grams\n  I'm poppin off by myself I don't need no Cam\n  I don't need you Jim, Juelz I got these niggaz\n  I don't care if they small or some stocky niggaz\n  I just grace 'em then erase 'em, I forgot these niggaz...\n  What they name again?...What they claim again?\n  Yeah these faggots hated, cause I'm they rappers favorite\n  You procrastinated so I got you assasinated\n  Shoot 'em up, bang bang, bullets in his Red Monkey's\n  Thought he was a gorilla? Nah, he a dead monkey\n\n  (Hook 2X: Cam'Ron)\n  WE BLASTIN' BIG TECS (TECS!)\n  CASHIN' BIG CHECKS (CH-CHING!)\n  NIGGA'S TALKING RIGHT?...I AIN'T HEARD SHIT YET! (NOPE!)\n  WE'LL LEAVE THE DUDE FLOODED, AND HIS BITCH WET (WET)\n  AND THE KIDS GO...\"LOOK DAD DIPSET!\"\n\n  (Cam'Ron)\n  DIIIIPSET!\n  If this was football, I'd be scoring touchdowns (TOUCHDOOOWN!)\n  It's the circus though, I see some tough clowns (clowns)\n  I don't need you Rell (nope), nor Duke Da God (no Duke)\n  No 40 or J.R, I go stupid hard (stupid hard!)\n  What you dealing pops? How you feeling 'ock? (how you feel?)\n  My floors come up, walls spin, ceiling drop (DROP!)\n\n  Not the crib that's the car when I wheel or not (not a house)\n  Plus a partition... bath, bar, kitchen\n  Yeah, pa' shittin (shitting), they say y'all didn't (YES WE DID!)\n  Every car driven... yeah from hard living (hard living)\n  Hang with Mariah, spent the night with Vivica\n  Every tabloid asking Cam \"what you did with her\"? (did with her?)\n  Just friends dog, \"word to eveerything\"?\n  YES, word to everything now focus on this heavy bling\n  Eat at Reyo's... Fettucini, Spaghetti things\n  Cheddy heavy so fuck being some petty king (fuck all that)\n  Can't be nice right? Can't be arrogant\n  I stab a bitch over ice, \"Nancy Kerrigan\"\n  Slash Tonya Harding, see the mobster's mobbing\n  You don't like us right? We got ya momma boppin' (true)\n  She look like Amy Fisher, \"don't the Range be bigger\"? (usually)\n  That's a baby mama car you can't game me nigga\n  My Royce a quarter mill, chain a half a mill\n  Earrings another 3 quarter mill, you ought to chill\n\n  (Hook)\n"},{"id":27950053,"name":"Dead The Funeral","trackName":"Dead The Funeral","artistName":"Camron","albumName":"DJ White Owl & N.Y CEO - War Music","duration":185.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Killa\n'For leaf big blowgun, fag nigga's bitch, doj' an'\nPeach chrome, sick Rover, Zeke home so bend over\nHe looked at me and said \"Killa I'll be your kitchen pitcher, the bid was rough\"\nI said nigga I did the bid with' ya\nCapiche, not Mona Lisa it's the big picture\nSix scriptures, six blickers, grip triggers, strip niggaz\nThe Big Dipper, swig liquor, big liver\nNow that you home watch the shit differ, I dig nigga\nSoon as a nigga whisper, believe we jiggin' Jigga\nHe Elton Brand in a barber chair, he'll get the Clippers\nI don't care who you are, the point, don't be stupid pa\nWe celebrities with guns, shooting stars\nYeah remove ya bras, a few of ours in through-in cars\nSpray 21, Blackjack, I knew ya cards\nKid roll, Peter Rowe like Kennedy\nFriends with me at the graveyard, visits from old enemies\nSome bitched, some snitched, some owed us dough\nPiss on the tombstone, write on it, \"Told you so\"\nCheck my portfolio, I was poor then rose to dough\nKNow what I'm about in a drought I score, overflow\nI'm the waterboy, wet work for water call\nThe price is nice, TLC, some waterfalls\nFiends snort it all, this fact I report to y'all\nGo inside, extort them all, from short to tall you oughta ball\nAnd where the ballas live and all my friends all to win\nThis the second time around, that shit you call again\nDamn yo' lady fine, you been on yo' baby grind\nMe I'm 86, highest temp, P-89s\nEveryday we shine, fine, don't pay me mind\nMy watches are retarded, you can call 'em crazy times\nMines are more than brothers\nWe gon' rock til the Range, Benz, and Porsches clutter\nGarage, assorted colors\nYeah Crayola box, for that, payola doc\nI'll lay you over a stroller with the strangest odor ock\nIs it over not, huh, we immune to you\nWe shoot the wake up, striaght up and dead the funeral\n\nAy yo hold the fuck up\nI said we gon' shoot the wake up and dead the fu-\nYou dead already we gon' dead the fu-\n\nMatter fact son, bring that shit back up, fuck it\n\nAnd you heard Rell, I do worst than foul\nThey murdered Roberta, lawyer murdered murder trials\nWe deserve to style, walk on Persian tile\nOn the island with millions, Durst to Al\nI get cake in layers, not the Daily News\nBut when I flip, I make the papers, hate the mayor\nI'm a gangsta, I fuck ma, go date a player\nMan these dudes are fish market, straight fillet ya\nWent to war with Kromo, then Pataki\nThen Guilliani, then I went to North Cackalacky\nWhat you gon' tell a mobster, cake was hella proper\nNo Petey Pablo when I saw them helicopters\nThat's the letter niggaz, trinckets from the ghetto bird\nHer word said I gave the whole ghetto birds\nMan your case go find it, need a new assignment\nThat ain't giving out, first of all that's call for silent\nContest to play\nYou got no gunwounds, jail time, felonies, real shit on your resume\nI get you extra yay, not tomorrow, yesterday\nIf they ask, never say, snitch and we never play, ay","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Dead The Funeral\n  artist: Camron\n  album: DJ White Owl & N.Y CEO - War Music\n  duration_ms: 185000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Killa\n  'For leaf big blowgun, fag nigga's bitch, doj' an'\n  Peach chrome, sick Rover, Zeke home so bend over\n  He looked at me and said \"Killa I'll be your kitchen pitcher, the bid was rough\"\n  I said nigga I did the bid with' ya\n  Capiche, not Mona Lisa it's the big picture\n  Six scriptures, six blickers, grip triggers, strip niggaz\n  The Big Dipper, swig liquor, big liver\n  Now that you home watch the shit differ, I dig nigga\n  Soon as a nigga whisper, believe we jiggin' Jigga\n  He Elton Brand in a barber chair, he'll get the Clippers\n  I don't care who you are, the point, don't be stupid pa\n  We celebrities with guns, shooting stars\n  Yeah remove ya bras, a few of ours in through-in cars\n  Spray 21, Blackjack, I knew ya cards\n  Kid roll, Peter Rowe like Kennedy\n  Friends with me at the graveyard, visits from old enemies\n  Some bitched, some snitched, some owed us dough\n  Piss on the tombstone, write on it, \"Told you so\"\n  Check my portfolio, I was poor then rose to dough\n  KNow what I'm about in a drought I score, overflow\n  I'm the waterboy, wet work for water call\n  The price is nice, TLC, some waterfalls\n  Fiends snort it all, this fact I report to y'all\n  Go inside, extort them all, from short to tall you oughta ball\n  And where the ballas live and all my friends all to win\n  This the second time around, that shit you call again\n  Damn yo' lady fine, you been on yo' baby grind\n  Me I'm 86, highest temp, P-89s\n  Everyday we shine, fine, don't pay me mind\n  My watches are retarded, you can call 'em crazy times\n  Mines are more than brothers\n  We gon' rock til the Range, Benz, and Porsches clutter\n  Garage, assorted colors\n  Yeah Crayola box, for that, payola doc\n  I'll lay you over a stroller with the strangest odor ock\n  Is it over not, huh, we immune to you\n  We shoot the wake up, striaght up and dead the funeral\n\n  Ay yo hold the fuck up\n  I said we gon' shoot the wake up and dead the fu-\n  You dead already we gon' dead the fu-\n\n  Matter fact son, bring that shit back up, fuck it\n\n  And you heard Rell, I do worst than foul\n  They murdered Roberta, lawyer murdered murder trials\n  We deserve to style, walk on Persian tile\n  On the island with millions, Durst to Al\n  I get cake in layers, not the Daily News\n  But when I flip, I make the papers, hate the mayor\n  I'm a gangsta, I fuck ma, go date a player\n  Man these dudes are fish market, straight fillet ya\n  Went to war with Kromo, then Pataki\n  Then Guilliani, then I went to North Cackalacky\n  What you gon' tell a mobster, cake was hella proper\n  No Petey Pablo when I saw them helicopters\n  That's the letter niggaz, trinckets from the ghetto bird\n  Her word said I gave the whole ghetto birds\n  Man your case go find it, need a new assignment\n  That ain't giving out, first of all that's call for silent\n  Contest to play\n  You got no gunwounds, jail time, felonies, real shit on your resume\n  I get you extra yay, not tomorrow, yesterday\n  If they ask, never say, snitch and we never play, ay\n"},{"id":23975974,"name":"Dead The Funeral","trackName":"Dead The Funeral","artistName":"Camron","albumName":"Big Mike, DJ Diggz & DJ Lust - The Hard Way 3 (The War Report) (Bootleg)","duration":163.343673,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Killa\n'For leaf big blowgun, fag nigga's bitch, doj' an'\nPeach chrome, sick Rover, Zeke home so bend over\nHe looked at me and said \"Killa I'll be your kitchen pitcher, the bid was rough\"\nI said nigga I did the bid with' ya\nCapiche, not Mona Lisa it's the big picture\nSix scriptures, six blickers, grip triggers, strip niggaz\nThe Big Dipper, swig liquor, big liver\nNow that you home watch the shit differ, I dig nigga\nSoon as a nigga whisper, believe we jiggin' Jigga\nHe Elton Brand in a barber chair, he'll get the Clippers\nI don't care who you are, the point, don't be stupid pa\nWe celebrities with guns, shooting stars\nYeah remove ya bras, a few of ours in through-in cars\nSpray 21, Blackjack, I knew ya cards\nKid roll, Peter Rowe like Kennedy\nFriends with me at the graveyard, visits from old enemies\nSome bitched, some snitched, some owed us dough\nPiss on the tombstone, write on it, \"Told you so\"\nCheck my portfolio, I was poor then rose to dough\nKNow what I'm about in a drought I score, overflow\nI'm the waterboy, wet work for water call\nThe price is nice, TLC, some waterfalls\nFiends snort it all, this fact I report to y'all\nGo inside, extort them all, from short to tall you oughta ball\nAnd where the ballas live and all my friends all to win\nThis the second time around, that shit you call again\nDamn yo' lady fine, you been on yo' baby grind\nMe I'm 86, highest temp, P-89s\nEveryday we shine, fine, don't pay me mind\nMy watches are retarded, you can call 'em crazy times\nMines are more than brothers\nWe gon' rock til the Range, Benz, and Porsches clutter\nGarage, assorted colors\nYeah Crayola box, for that, payola doc\nI'll lay you over a stroller with the strangest odor ock\nIs it over not, huh, we immune to you\nWe shoot the wake up, striaght up and dead the funeral\n\nAy yo hold the fuck up\nI said we gon' shoot the wake up and dead the fu-\nYou dead already we gon' dead the fu-\n\nMatter fact son, bring that shit back up, fuck it\n\nAnd you heard Rell, I do worst than foul\nThey murdered Roberta, lawyer murdered murder trials\nWe deserve to style, walk on Persian tile\nOn the island with millions, Durst to Al\nI get cake in layers, not the Daily News\nBut when I flip, I make the papers, hate the mayor\nI'm a gangsta, I fuck ma, go date a player\nMan these dudes are fish market, straight fillet ya\nWent to war with Kromo, then Pataki\nThen Guilliani, then I went to North Cackalacky\nWhat you gon' tell a mobster, cake was hella proper\nNo Petey Pablo when I saw them helicopters\nThat's the letter niggaz, trinckets from the ghetto bird\nHer word said I gave the whole ghetto birds\nMan your case go find it, need a new assignment\nThat ain't giving out, first of all that's call for silent\nContest to play\nYou got no gunwounds, jail time, felonies, real shit on your resume\nI get you extra yay, not tomorrow, yesterday\nIf they ask, never say, snitch and we never play, ay","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Dead The Funeral\n  artist: Camron\n  album: Big Mike, DJ Diggz & DJ Lust - The Hard Way 3 (The War Report) (Bootleg)\n  duration_ms: 163344\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Killa\n  'For leaf big blowgun, fag nigga's bitch, doj' an'\n  Peach chrome, sick Rover, Zeke home so bend over\n  He looked at me and said \"Killa I'll be your kitchen pitcher, the bid was rough\"\n  I said nigga I did the bid with' ya\n  Capiche, not Mona Lisa it's the big picture\n  Six scriptures, six blickers, grip triggers, strip niggaz\n  The Big Dipper, swig liquor, big liver\n  Now that you home watch the shit differ, I dig nigga\n  Soon as a nigga whisper, believe we jiggin' Jigga\n  He Elton Brand in a barber chair, he'll get the Clippers\n  I don't care who you are, the point, don't be stupid pa\n  We celebrities with guns, shooting stars\n  Yeah remove ya bras, a few of ours in through-in cars\n  Spray 21, Blackjack, I knew ya cards\n  Kid roll, Peter Rowe like Kennedy\n  Friends with me at the graveyard, visits from old enemies\n  Some bitched, some snitched, some owed us dough\n  Piss on the tombstone, write on it, \"Told you so\"\n  Check my portfolio, I was poor then rose to dough\n  KNow what I'm about in a drought I score, overflow\n  I'm the waterboy, wet work for water call\n  The price is nice, TLC, some waterfalls\n  Fiends snort it all, this fact I report to y'all\n  Go inside, extort them all, from short to tall you oughta ball\n  And where the ballas live and all my friends all to win\n  This the second time around, that shit you call again\n  Damn yo' lady fine, you been on yo' baby grind\n  Me I'm 86, highest temp, P-89s\n  Everyday we shine, fine, don't pay me mind\n  My watches are retarded, you can call 'em crazy times\n  Mines are more than brothers\n  We gon' rock til the Range, Benz, and Porsches clutter\n  Garage, assorted colors\n  Yeah Crayola box, for that, payola doc\n  I'll lay you over a stroller with the strangest odor ock\n  Is it over not, huh, we immune to you\n  We shoot the wake up, striaght up and dead the funeral\n\n  Ay yo hold the fuck up\n  I said we gon' shoot the wake up and dead the fu-\n  You dead already we gon' dead the fu-\n\n  Matter fact son, bring that shit back up, fuck it\n\n  And you heard Rell, I do worst than foul\n  They murdered Roberta, lawyer murdered murder trials\n  We deserve to style, walk on Persian tile\n  On the island with millions, Durst to Al\n  I get cake in layers, not the Daily News\n  But when I flip, I make the papers, hate the mayor\n  I'm a gangsta, I fuck ma, go date a player\n  Man these dudes are fish market, straight fillet ya\n  Went to war with Kromo, then Pataki\n  Then Guilliani, then I went to North Cackalacky\n  What you gon' tell a mobster, cake was hella proper\n  No Petey Pablo when I saw them helicopters\n  That's the letter niggaz, trinckets from the ghetto bird\n  Her word said I gave the whole ghetto birds\n  Man your case go find it, need a new assignment\n  That ain't giving out, first of all that's call for silent\n  Contest to play\n  You got no gunwounds, jail time, felonies, real shit on your resume\n  I get you extra yay, not tomorrow, yesterday\n  If they ask, never say, snitch and we never play, ay\n"},{"id":29205910,"name":"He Tried 2 Play Me","trackName":"He Tried 2 Play Me","artistName":"Camron Featuring Hell Rell","albumName":"DJ White Owl & N.Y CEO - War Music","duration":222.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"He tried to play me, shit got all crazy\nAnd things just wasn't the same\nSo I ran up on him, then pulled my Mac out\nAnd I blew out his brains\n\nY'all wanted violence, we move in silence\nSilencer silence the guns\nI was the wildest, that was childish\nNow I stack my ones\nShinay was in love with her school, Rich wasn't liking his school\nShinay caught two in the ribs\nHe was a hustler, she's a customer\nNow he's off doing a bid\nT got shot with a shotgun on his block\nI wish it was all pretend\nNana getting high, hard enough getting by\nWhen is it all gonna end?\nMe I'm still holding on, the team still rollin' strong\nThe Ave. is down the street (down the street)\nBut I'm a street target, call me the meat market\nI stay around some beef\nThe block's still pumpin', isn't it something?\nNeedles, knives, and nines\nThere's no tomorrow, food getting borrowed\nWhat kind of life is mine? (Life is mine)\n\nHe tried to play me, shit got all crazy\nAnd things just wasn't the same\nSo I ran up on him, then pulled my Mac out\nAnd I blew out his brains\n\nThey call me \"Patty Cake Patty Cake The Bakers Man\", I bubble bread (bread)\nBeef don't stop, who's this years knuckle head? (knuckle head)\nWe done scrapped and scuffled until our knuckles bled (bled)\nShot out in front of police, yelled \"Fuck a fed\"! (fuck the feds)\nI patrol on d low, popo know my steelo\nWho seen Killa cop? Niggas rolling C-Lo\nPump the peddle bike, nice chain, light chain\nFiends sniffin' white caine, needle, 40 and night train (that's Harlem)\nJust a hype lame, you don't love 'em like Dame (why?)\nThree years ago I would of robbed his dice game (true)\nLife's changed my snipe game's the right mayne (what's the difference?)\nOnly difference is I'll push you to that right lane (whip in traffic)\nGotta laugh yall that's just blue lightning (the Lambo)\nOr that white thing, you on the internet pricing (pricing?)\nI don't window shop, not, me and Jim go cop\nHop through the window, I- god damn them Bimbo's hot (hot)\nHot Dukes of Hazzard, they wanna do the limbo, lock\nNever had a Pinto OHC, first car a Benzo drop (Mercedes)\n\"Benz and Bops\", put between my hot wallet\nAnd my toaster, I really had a hot pocket\nAnd I'm saying this real clear, y'all can't chill here\nI know real thugs in wheelchairs, yeah yeah banged up and they still there\nParty pop more bottles than a nigga on two feet and some real gear\nIt's real here, real near, you feel fear, a meals real\nThey don't cry, if they do cry, homeboy it's a steel tear\nAnimals; Lions, Whales, Seals, Bears\nY'all fruits; cherries, grapes, stale pears\n\nThat's why niggas fuck with me\nAnd them ladies loving me, they all put they trust in me\nCause I flip that killa man\nThat's why niggas fuck with me\nAnd them ladies loving me, they all put they trust in me\nAnd my name is Killa Cam\n\nHe tried to play me, shit got all crazy\nAnd things just wasn't the same\nSo I ran up on him, then pulled my Mac out\nAnd I blew out his brains","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: He Tried 2 Play Me\n  artist: Camron Featuring Hell Rell\n  album: DJ White Owl & N.Y CEO - War Music\n  duration_ms: 222000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  He tried to play me, shit got all crazy\n  And things just wasn't the same\n  So I ran up on him, then pulled my Mac out\n  And I blew out his brains\n\n  Y'all wanted violence, we move in silence\n  Silencer silence the guns\n  I was the wildest, that was childish\n  Now I stack my ones\n  Shinay was in love with her school, Rich wasn't liking his school\n  Shinay caught two in the ribs\n  He was a hustler, she's a customer\n  Now he's off doing a bid\n  T got shot with a shotgun on his block\n  I wish it was all pretend\n  Nana getting high, hard enough getting by\n  When is it all gonna end?\n  Me I'm still holding on, the team still rollin' strong\n  The Ave. is down the street (down the street)\n  But I'm a street target, call me the meat market\n  I stay around some beef\n  The block's still pumpin', isn't it something?\n  Needles, knives, and nines\n  There's no tomorrow, food getting borrowed\n  What kind of life is mine? (Life is mine)\n\n  He tried to play me, shit got all crazy\n  And things just wasn't the same\n  So I ran up on him, then pulled my Mac out\n  And I blew out his brains\n\n  They call me \"Patty Cake Patty Cake The Bakers Man\", I bubble bread (bread)\n  Beef don't stop, who's this years knuckle head? (knuckle head)\n  We done scrapped and scuffled until our knuckles bled (bled)\n  Shot out in front of police, yelled \"Fuck a fed\"! (fuck the feds)\n  I patrol on d low, popo know my steelo\n  Who seen Killa cop? Niggas rolling C-Lo\n  Pump the peddle bike, nice chain, light chain\n  Fiends sniffin' white caine, needle, 40 and night train (that's Harlem)\n  Just a hype lame, you don't love 'em like Dame (why?)\n  Three years ago I would of robbed his dice game (true)\n  Life's changed my snipe game's the right mayne (what's the difference?)\n  Only difference is I'll push you to that right lane (whip in traffic)\n  Gotta laugh yall that's just blue lightning (the Lambo)\n  Or that white thing, you on the internet pricing (pricing?)\n  I don't window shop, not, me and Jim go cop\n  Hop through the window, I- god damn them Bimbo's hot (hot)\n  Hot Dukes of Hazzard, they wanna do the limbo, lock\n  Never had a Pinto OHC, first car a Benzo drop (Mercedes)\n  \"Benz and Bops\", put between my hot wallet\n  And my toaster, I really had a hot pocket\n  And I'm saying this real clear, y'all can't chill here\n  I know real thugs in wheelchairs, yeah yeah banged up and they still there\n  Party pop more bottles than a nigga on two feet and some real gear\n  It's real here, real near, you feel fear, a meals real\n  They don't cry, if they do cry, homeboy it's a steel tear\n  Animals; Lions, Whales, Seals, Bears\n  Y'all fruits; cherries, grapes, stale pears\n\n  That's why niggas fuck with me\n  And them ladies loving me, they all put they trust in me\n  Cause I flip that killa man\n  That's why niggas fuck with me\n  And them ladies loving me, they all put they trust in me\n  And my name is Killa Cam\n\n  He tried to play me, shit got all crazy\n  And things just wasn't the same\n  So I ran up on him, then pulled my Mac out\n  And I blew out his brains\n"}]