[{"id":34645041,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn","albumName":"Best of Children of the Corn","duration":216.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\nThe NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\nComin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\nAKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\nYou know how we do, yeah\nYo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\nBoss with CREAM cocaine hustla\nBlowin' out da brains of bustas\nBe in my mansion, chillin'\nInhalin' ganja smoke\nCountin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with\nDrugs and clock dollaz\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\nSkunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\nCristal sippa\nI been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\nEast Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\nThen I'm ghost!\nThis money be temptin' me to\nJump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\nTips wit' no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold Morphine for more green\nKept dope in the Nautica coat\nUnder the drawstring\nAnd watched out for cops\nSquad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\nFlee the country to Argentina\nLay back on the beach, yeah\nCoastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\nLine boat to Aruba for a while, yo\nPumped the vile so I could pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\nYo, makin' this money's the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast\nYou know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown or Downtown\nYou pick the scene\nYou gotta get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this green\nYo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\nThey bury me\nCount numerically, Hills of Beverly\nMore Grands than Cherokee\nPresident like Eric B and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top 10, locked in\nRight now is not a option\nAnd those who creep\nGot the mag' in the heat\nTo guard the 5-inch screens in\nThe back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy braggin'\nLast year, had me saggin'\nWasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\nTossed me in the paddy wagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n'Cause we was 12 years old in\nThe Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\nSo all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\nYou wrong!\nKilla kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\nYo, I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazin' flows\nMoney surrounded, I count it\nWhile bathin' with Asian hoes\nBack home, niggas is after me\nI'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\nCoke factories\nFiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cuttin' up rocks to\nInvestin' in stocks\nNautica yachts and knots bustin'\nOut of my socks\nNow that blood's paid and chubby\nAll the ladies love me\nThey hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back, they say my baby's ugly\nEach night\nI sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\nNeighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\nSemen leaks between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n'Cause these is modern times\nAnd only thing I see is dollar signs\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean\nBimm' is every teen's dream\nBig L's a CREAM fiend with\nMore green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\nHarlem kids is known for\nFelonies and sellin' keys\nPushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DT's\nBe yellin' \"Freeze!\"\nWe stash G's and keep our\nPocket full of centuries\nA yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid a threat 'cause\nI had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain\nSaid \"Act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, ya bitch chose me\nYou know the rules to the game!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn\n  album: Best of Children of the Corn\n  duration_ms: 216000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\n  The NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\n  Comin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\n  AKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\n  You know how we do, yeah\n  Yo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\n  Boss with CREAM cocaine hustla\n  Blowin' out da brains of bustas\n  Be in my mansion, chillin'\n  Inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Countin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with\n  Drugs and clock dollaz\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\n  Skunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\n  Cristal sippa\n  I been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n  'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\n  East Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\n  Then I'm ghost!\n  This money be temptin' me to\n  Jump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\n  Tips wit' no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold Morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in the Nautica coat\n  Under the drawstring\n  And watched out for cops\n  Squad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\n  Flee the country to Argentina\n  Lay back on the beach, yeah\n  Coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\n  Line boat to Aruba for a while, yo\n  Pumped the vile so I could pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  Yo, makin' this money's the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast\n  You know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown or Downtown\n  You pick the scene\n  You gotta get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this green\n  Yo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\n  They bury me\n  Count numerically, Hills of Beverly\n  More Grands than Cherokee\n  President like Eric B and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top 10, locked in\n  Right now is not a option\n  And those who creep\n  Got the mag' in the heat\n  To guard the 5-inch screens in\n  The back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy braggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin'\n  Wasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\n  Tossed me in the paddy wagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  'Cause we was 12 years old in\n  The Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\n  So all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\n  You wrong!\n  Killa kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\n  Yo, I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazin' flows\n  Money surrounded, I count it\n  While bathin' with Asian hoes\n  Back home, niggas is after me\n  I'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\n  Coke factories\n  Fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cuttin' up rocks to\n  Investin' in stocks\n  Nautica yachts and knots bustin'\n  Out of my socks\n  Now that blood's paid and chubby\n  All the ladies love me\n  They hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back, they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night\n  I sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\n  Semen leaks between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n  'Cause these is modern times\n  And only thing I see is dollar signs\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean\n  Bimm' is every teen's dream\n  Big L's a CREAM fiend with\n  More green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\n  Harlem kids is known for\n  Felonies and sellin' keys\n  Pushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DT's\n  Be yellin' \"Freeze!\"\n  We stash G's and keep our\n  Pocket full of centuries\n  A yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid a threat 'cause\n  I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain\n  Said \"Act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, ya bitch chose me\n  You know the rules to the game!\n"},{"id":30236318,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn","albumName":"Crooklyn Cuts, Volume III (Tape B)","duration":241.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\nThe NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\nComin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\nAKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\nYou know how we do, yeah\nYo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\nBoss with CREAM cocaine hustla\nBlowin' out da brains of bustas\nBe in my mansion, chillin'\nInhalin' ganja smoke\nCountin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with\nDrugs and clock dollaz\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\nSkunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\nCristal sippa\nI been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\nEast Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\nThen I'm ghost!\nThis money be temptin' me to\nJump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\nTips wit' no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold Morphine for more green\nKept dope in the Nautica coat\nUnder the drawstring\nAnd watched out for cops\nSquad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\nFlee the country to Argentina\nLay back on the beach, yeah\nCoastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\nLine boat to Aruba for a while, yo\nPumped the vile so I could pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\nYo, makin' this money's the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast\nYou know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown or Downtown\nYou pick the scene\nYou gotta get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this green\nYo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\nThey bury me\nCount numerically, Hills of Beverly\nMore Grands than Cherokee\nPresident like Eric B and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top 10, locked in\nRight now is not a option\nAnd those who creep\nGot the mag' in the heat\nTo guard the 5-inch screens in\nThe back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy braggin'\nLast year, had me saggin'\nWasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\nTossed me in the paddy wagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n'Cause we was 12 years old in\nThe Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\nSo all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\nYou wrong!\nKilla kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\nYo, I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazin' flows\nMoney surrounded, I count it\nWhile bathin' with Asian hoes\nBack home, niggas is after me\nI'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\nCoke factories\nFiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cuttin' up rocks to\nInvestin' in stocks\nNautica yachts and knots bustin'\nOut of my socks\nNow that blood's paid and chubby\nAll the ladies love me\nThey hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back, they say my baby's ugly\nEach night\nI sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\nNeighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\nSemen leaks between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n'Cause these is modern times\nAnd only thing I see is dollar signs\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean\nBimm' is every teen's dream\nBig L's a CREAM fiend with\nMore green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\nHarlem kids is known for\nFelonies and sellin' keys\nPushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DT's\nBe yellin' \"Freeze!\"\nWe stash G's and keep our\nPocket full of centuries\nA yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid a threat 'cause\nI had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain\nSaid \"Act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, ya bitch chose me\nYou know the rules to the game!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn\n  album: Crooklyn Cuts, Volume III (Tape B)\n  duration_ms: 241000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\n  The NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\n  Comin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\n  AKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\n  You know how we do, yeah\n  Yo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\n  Boss with CREAM cocaine hustla\n  Blowin' out da brains of bustas\n  Be in my mansion, chillin'\n  Inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Countin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with\n  Drugs and clock dollaz\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\n  Skunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\n  Cristal sippa\n  I been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n  'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\n  East Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\n  Then I'm ghost!\n  This money be temptin' me to\n  Jump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\n  Tips wit' no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold Morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in the Nautica coat\n  Under the drawstring\n  And watched out for cops\n  Squad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\n  Flee the country to Argentina\n  Lay back on the beach, yeah\n  Coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\n  Line boat to Aruba for a while, yo\n  Pumped the vile so I could pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  Yo, makin' this money's the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast\n  You know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown or Downtown\n  You pick the scene\n  You gotta get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this green\n  Yo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\n  They bury me\n  Count numerically, Hills of Beverly\n  More Grands than Cherokee\n  President like Eric B and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top 10, locked in\n  Right now is not a option\n  And those who creep\n  Got the mag' in the heat\n  To guard the 5-inch screens in\n  The back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy braggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin'\n  Wasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\n  Tossed me in the paddy wagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  'Cause we was 12 years old in\n  The Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\n  So all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\n  You wrong!\n  Killa kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\n  Yo, I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazin' flows\n  Money surrounded, I count it\n  While bathin' with Asian hoes\n  Back home, niggas is after me\n  I'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\n  Coke factories\n  Fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cuttin' up rocks to\n  Investin' in stocks\n  Nautica yachts and knots bustin'\n  Out of my socks\n  Now that blood's paid and chubby\n  All the ladies love me\n  They hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back, they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night\n  I sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\n  Semen leaks between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n  'Cause these is modern times\n  And only thing I see is dollar signs\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean\n  Bimm' is every teen's dream\n  Big L's a CREAM fiend with\n  More green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\n  Harlem kids is known for\n  Felonies and sellin' keys\n  Pushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DT's\n  Be yellin' \"Freeze!\"\n  We stash G's and keep our\n  Pocket full of centuries\n  A yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid a threat 'cause\n  I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain\n  Said \"Act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, ya bitch chose me\n  You know the rules to the game!\n"},{"id":30018451,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children Of The Corn","albumName":"Harlem Usa Bootleg","duration":258.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\nThe NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\nComin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\nAKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\nYou know how we do, yeah\nYo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\nBoss with CREAM cocaine hustla\nBlowin' out da brains of bustas\nBe in my mansion, chillin'\nInhalin' ganja smoke\nCountin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with\nDrugs and clock dollaz\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\nSkunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\nCristal sippa\nI been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\nEast Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\nThen I'm ghost!\nThis money be temptin' me to\nJump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\nTips wit' no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold Morphine for more green\nKept dope in the Nautica coat\nUnder the drawstring\nAnd watched out for cops\nSquad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\nFlee the country to Argentina\nLay back on the beach, yeah\nCoastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\nLine boat to Aruba for a while, yo\nPumped the vile so I could pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\nYo, makin' this money's the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast\nYou know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown or Downtown\nYou pick the scene\nYou gotta get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this green\nYo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\nThey bury me\nCount numerically, Hills of Beverly\nMore Grands than Cherokee\nPresident like Eric B and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top 10, locked in\nRight now is not a option\nAnd those who creep\nGot the mag' in the heat\nTo guard the 5-inch screens in\nThe back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy braggin'\nLast year, had me saggin'\nWasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\nTossed me in the paddy wagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n'Cause we was 12 years old in\nThe Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\nSo all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\nYou wrong!\nKilla kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\nYo, I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazin' flows\nMoney surrounded, I count it\nWhile bathin' with Asian hoes\nBack home, niggas is after me\nI'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\nCoke factories\nFiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cuttin' up rocks to\nInvestin' in stocks\nNautica yachts and knots bustin'\nOut of my socks\nNow that blood's paid and chubby\nAll the ladies love me\nThey hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back, they say my baby's ugly\nEach night\nI sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\nNeighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\nSemen leaks between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n'Cause these is modern times\nAnd only thing I see is dollar signs\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean\nBimm' is every teen's dream\nBig L's a CREAM fiend with\nMore green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\nHarlem kids is known for\nFelonies and sellin' keys\nPushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DT's\nBe yellin' \"Freeze!\"\nWe stash G's and keep our\nPocket full of centuries\nA yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid a threat 'cause\nI had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain\nSaid \"Act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, ya bitch chose me\nYou know the rules to the game!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children Of The Corn\n  album: Harlem Usa Bootleg\n  duration_ms: 258000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\n  The NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\n  Comin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\n  AKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\n  You know how we do, yeah\n  Yo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\n  Boss with CREAM cocaine hustla\n  Blowin' out da brains of bustas\n  Be in my mansion, chillin'\n  Inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Countin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with\n  Drugs and clock dollaz\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\n  Skunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\n  Cristal sippa\n  I been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n  'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\n  East Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\n  Then I'm ghost!\n  This money be temptin' me to\n  Jump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\n  Tips wit' no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold Morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in the Nautica coat\n  Under the drawstring\n  And watched out for cops\n  Squad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\n  Flee the country to Argentina\n  Lay back on the beach, yeah\n  Coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\n  Line boat to Aruba for a while, yo\n  Pumped the vile so I could pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  Yo, makin' this money's the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast\n  You know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown or Downtown\n  You pick the scene\n  You gotta get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this green\n  Yo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\n  They bury me\n  Count numerically, Hills of Beverly\n  More Grands than Cherokee\n  President like Eric B and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top 10, locked in\n  Right now is not a option\n  And those who creep\n  Got the mag' in the heat\n  To guard the 5-inch screens in\n  The back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy braggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin'\n  Wasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\n  Tossed me in the paddy wagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  'Cause we was 12 years old in\n  The Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\n  So all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\n  You wrong!\n  Killa kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\n  Yo, I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazin' flows\n  Money surrounded, I count it\n  While bathin' with Asian hoes\n  Back home, niggas is after me\n  I'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\n  Coke factories\n  Fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cuttin' up rocks to\n  Investin' in stocks\n  Nautica yachts and knots bustin'\n  Out of my socks\n  Now that blood's paid and chubby\n  All the ladies love me\n  They hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back, they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night\n  I sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\n  Semen leaks between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n  'Cause these is modern times\n  And only thing I see is dollar signs\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean\n  Bimm' is every teen's dream\n  Big L's a CREAM fiend with\n  More green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\n  Harlem kids is known for\n  Felonies and sellin' keys\n  Pushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DT's\n  Be yellin' \"Freeze!\"\n  We stash G's and keep our\n  Pocket full of centuries\n  A yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid a threat 'cause\n  I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain\n  Said \"Act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, ya bitch chose me\n  You know the rules to the game!\n"},{"id":23524077,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn","albumName":"Rap a Cité","duration":271.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\nThe NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\nComin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\nAKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\nYou know how we do, yeah\nYo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\nBoss with CREAM cocaine hustla\nBlowin' out da brains of bustas\nBe in my mansion, chillin'\nInhalin' ganja smoke\nCountin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with\nDrugs and clock dollaz\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\nSkunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\nCristal sippa\nI been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\nEast Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\nThen I'm ghost!\nThis money be temptin' me to\nJump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\nTips wit' no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold Morphine for more green\nKept dope in the Nautica coat\nUnder the drawstring\nAnd watched out for cops\nSquad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\nFlee the country to Argentina\nLay back on the beach, yeah\nCoastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\nLine boat to Aruba for a while, yo\nPumped the vile so I could pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\nYo, makin' this money's the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast\nYou know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown or Downtown\nYou pick the scene\nYou gotta get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this green\nYo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\nThey bury me\nCount numerically, Hills of Beverly\nMore Grands than Cherokee\nPresident like Eric B and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top 10, locked in\nRight now is not a option\nAnd those who creep\nGot the mag' in the heat\nTo guard the 5-inch screens in\nThe back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy braggin'\nLast year, had me saggin'\nWasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\nTossed me in the paddy wagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n'Cause we was 12 years old in\nThe Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\nSo all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\nYou wrong!\nKilla kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\nYo, I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazin' flows\nMoney surrounded, I count it\nWhile bathin' with Asian hoes\nBack home, niggas is after me\nI'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\nCoke factories\nFiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cuttin' up rocks to\nInvestin' in stocks\nNautica yachts and knots bustin'\nOut of my socks\nNow that blood's paid and chubby\nAll the ladies love me\nThey hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back, they say my baby's ugly\nEach night\nI sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\nNeighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\nSemen leaks between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n'Cause these is modern times\nAnd only thing I see is dollar signs\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean\nBimm' is every teen's dream\nBig L's a CREAM fiend with\nMore green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\nHarlem kids is known for\nFelonies and sellin' keys\nPushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DT's\nBe yellin' \"Freeze!\"\nWe stash G's and keep our\nPocket full of centuries\nA yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid a threat 'cause\nI had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain\nSaid \"Act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, ya bitch chose me\nYou know the rules to the game!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn\n  album: Rap a Cité\n  duration_ms: 271000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\n  The NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\n  Comin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\n  AKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\n  You know how we do, yeah\n  Yo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\n  Boss with CREAM cocaine hustla\n  Blowin' out da brains of bustas\n  Be in my mansion, chillin'\n  Inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Countin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with\n  Drugs and clock dollaz\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\n  Skunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\n  Cristal sippa\n  I been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n  'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\n  East Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\n  Then I'm ghost!\n  This money be temptin' me to\n  Jump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\n  Tips wit' no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold Morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in the Nautica coat\n  Under the drawstring\n  And watched out for cops\n  Squad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\n  Flee the country to Argentina\n  Lay back on the beach, yeah\n  Coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\n  Line boat to Aruba for a while, yo\n  Pumped the vile so I could pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  Yo, makin' this money's the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast\n  You know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown or Downtown\n  You pick the scene\n  You gotta get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this green\n  Yo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\n  They bury me\n  Count numerically, Hills of Beverly\n  More Grands than Cherokee\n  President like Eric B and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top 10, locked in\n  Right now is not a option\n  And those who creep\n  Got the mag' in the heat\n  To guard the 5-inch screens in\n  The back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy braggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin'\n  Wasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\n  Tossed me in the paddy wagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  'Cause we was 12 years old in\n  The Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\n  So all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\n  You wrong!\n  Killa kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\n  Yo, I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazin' flows\n  Money surrounded, I count it\n  While bathin' with Asian hoes\n  Back home, niggas is after me\n  I'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\n  Coke factories\n  Fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cuttin' up rocks to\n  Investin' in stocks\n  Nautica yachts and knots bustin'\n  Out of my socks\n  Now that blood's paid and chubby\n  All the ladies love me\n  They hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back, they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night\n  I sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\n  Semen leaks between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n  'Cause these is modern times\n  And only thing I see is dollar signs\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean\n  Bimm' is every teen's dream\n  Big L's a CREAM fiend with\n  More green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\n  Harlem kids is known for\n  Felonies and sellin' keys\n  Pushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DT's\n  Be yellin' \"Freeze!\"\n  We stash G's and keep our\n  Pocket full of centuries\n  A yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid a threat 'cause\n  I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain\n  Said \"Act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, ya bitch chose me\n  You know the rules to the game!\n"},{"id":36951943,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn","albumName":"Bootleg Vinyl Ep","duration":215.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\nThe NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\nComin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\nAKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\nYou know how we do, yeah\nYo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\nBoss with CREAM cocaine hustla\nBlowin' out da brains of bustas\nBe in my mansion, chillin'\nInhalin' ganja smoke\nCountin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with\nDrugs and clock dollaz\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\nSkunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\nCristal sippa\nI been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\nEast Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\nThen I'm ghost!\nThis money be temptin' me to\nJump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\nTips wit' no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold Morphine for more green\nKept dope in the Nautica coat\nUnder the drawstring\nAnd watched out for cops\nSquad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\nFlee the country to Argentina\nLay back on the beach, yeah\nCoastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\nLine boat to Aruba for a while, yo\nPumped the vile so I could pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\nYo, makin' this money's the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast\nYou know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown or Downtown\nYou pick the scene\nYou gotta get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this green\nYo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\nThey bury me\nCount numerically, Hills of Beverly\nMore Grands than Cherokee\nPresident like Eric B and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top 10, locked in\nRight now is not a option\nAnd those who creep\nGot the mag' in the heat\nTo guard the 5-inch screens in\nThe back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy braggin'\nLast year, had me saggin'\nWasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\nTossed me in the paddy wagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n'Cause we was 12 years old in\nThe Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\nSo all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\nYou wrong!\nKilla kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\nYo, I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazin' flows\nMoney surrounded, I count it\nWhile bathin' with Asian hoes\nBack home, niggas is after me\nI'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\nCoke factories\nFiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cuttin' up rocks to\nInvestin' in stocks\nNautica yachts and knots bustin'\nOut of my socks\nNow that blood's paid and chubby\nAll the ladies love me\nThey hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back, they say my baby's ugly\nEach night\nI sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\nNeighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\nSemen leaks between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n'Cause these is modern times\nAnd only thing I see is dollar signs\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean\nBimm' is every teen's dream\nBig L's a CREAM fiend with\nMore green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\nHarlem kids is known for\nFelonies and sellin' keys\nPushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DT's\nBe yellin' \"Freeze!\"\nWe stash G's and keep our\nPocket full of centuries\nA yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid a threat 'cause\nI had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain\nSaid \"Act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, ya bitch chose me\nYou know the rules to the game!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn\n  album: Bootleg Vinyl Ep\n  duration_ms: 215000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\n  The NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\n  Comin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\n  AKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\n  You know how we do, yeah\n  Yo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\n  Boss with CREAM cocaine hustla\n  Blowin' out da brains of bustas\n  Be in my mansion, chillin'\n  Inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Countin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with\n  Drugs and clock dollaz\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\n  Skunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\n  Cristal sippa\n  I been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n  'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\n  East Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\n  Then I'm ghost!\n  This money be temptin' me to\n  Jump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\n  Tips wit' no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold Morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in the Nautica coat\n  Under the drawstring\n  And watched out for cops\n  Squad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\n  Flee the country to Argentina\n  Lay back on the beach, yeah\n  Coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\n  Line boat to Aruba for a while, yo\n  Pumped the vile so I could pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  Yo, makin' this money's the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast\n  You know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown or Downtown\n  You pick the scene\n  You gotta get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this green\n  Yo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\n  They bury me\n  Count numerically, Hills of Beverly\n  More Grands than Cherokee\n  President like Eric B and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top 10, locked in\n  Right now is not a option\n  And those who creep\n  Got the mag' in the heat\n  To guard the 5-inch screens in\n  The back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy braggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin'\n  Wasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\n  Tossed me in the paddy wagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  'Cause we was 12 years old in\n  The Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\n  So all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\n  You wrong!\n  Killa kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\n  Yo, I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazin' flows\n  Money surrounded, I count it\n  While bathin' with Asian hoes\n  Back home, niggas is after me\n  I'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\n  Coke factories\n  Fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cuttin' up rocks to\n  Investin' in stocks\n  Nautica yachts and knots bustin'\n  Out of my socks\n  Now that blood's paid and chubby\n  All the ladies love me\n  They hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back, they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night\n  I sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\n  Semen leaks between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n  'Cause these is modern times\n  And only thing I see is dollar signs\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean\n  Bimm' is every teen's dream\n  Big L's a CREAM fiend with\n  More green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\n  Harlem kids is known for\n  Felonies and sellin' keys\n  Pushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DT's\n  Be yellin' \"Freeze!\"\n  We stash G's and keep our\n  Pocket full of centuries\n  A yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid a threat 'cause\n  I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain\n  Said \"Act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, ya bitch chose me\n  You know the rules to the game!\n"},{"id":26104647,"name":"American_Dream","trackName":"American_Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn","albumName":"Harlems Finest Bootleg","duration":255.85075,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\nThe NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\nComin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\nAKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\nYou know how we do, yeah\nYo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\nBoss with CREAM cocaine hustla\nBlowin' out da brains of bustas\nBe in my mansion, chillin'\nInhalin' ganja smoke\nCountin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with\nDrugs and clock dollaz\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\nSkunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\nCristal sippa\nI been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\nEast Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\nThen I'm ghost!\nThis money be temptin' me to\nJump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\nTips wit' no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold Morphine for more green\nKept dope in the Nautica coat\nUnder the drawstring\nAnd watched out for cops\nSquad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\nFlee the country to Argentina\nLay back on the beach, yeah\nCoastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\nLine boat to Aruba for a while, yo\nPumped the vile so I could pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\nYo, makin' this money's the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast\nYou know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown or Downtown\nYou pick the scene\nYou gotta get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this green\nYo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\nThey bury me\nCount numerically, Hills of Beverly\nMore Grands than Cherokee\nPresident like Eric B and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top 10, locked in\nRight now is not a option\nAnd those who creep\nGot the mag' in the heat\nTo guard the 5-inch screens in\nThe back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy braggin'\nLast year, had me saggin'\nWasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\nTossed me in the paddy wagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n'Cause we was 12 years old in\nThe Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\nSo all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\nYou wrong!\nKilla kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\nYo, I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazin' flows\nMoney surrounded, I count it\nWhile bathin' with Asian hoes\nBack home, niggas is after me\nI'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\nCoke factories\nFiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cuttin' up rocks to\nInvestin' in stocks\nNautica yachts and knots bustin'\nOut of my socks\nNow that blood's paid and chubby\nAll the ladies love me\nThey hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back, they say my baby's ugly\nEach night\nI sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\nNeighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\nSemen leaks between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n'Cause these is modern times\nAnd only thing I see is dollar signs\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean\nBimm' is every teen's dream\nBig L's a CREAM fiend with\nMore green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\nHarlem kids is known for\nFelonies and sellin' keys\nPushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DT's\nBe yellin' \"Freeze!\"\nWe stash G's and keep our\nPocket full of centuries\nA yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid a threat 'cause\nI had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain\nSaid \"Act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, ya bitch chose me\nYou know the rules to the game!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American_Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn\n  album: Harlems Finest Bootleg\n  duration_ms: 255851\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah\n  The NFL Crew and the Children of the Corn\n  Comin' straight from Money-Makin' Manhattan\n  AKA harlem, the home of the hustlas\n  You know how we do, yeah\n  Yo, crooked corrupt criminal crime\n  Boss with CREAM cocaine hustla\n  Blowin' out da brains of bustas\n  Be in my mansion, chillin'\n  Inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Countin' mad CREAM, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with\n  Drugs and clock dollaz\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollas\n  Skunk smoka, Philly and Owl rippa\n  Cristal sippa\n  I been a Willie for a while, nigga!\n  'Gruff got hoes, da man wit' all da nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop-top Rolls\n  East Coast, West Coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the CREAM wit' my team\n  Then I'm ghost!\n  This money be temptin' me to\n  Jump out the MPV empty three clips of hollow\n  Tips wit' no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold Morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in the Nautica coat\n  Under the drawstring\n  And watched out for cops\n  Squad cars and Bimmers and larger ninas\n  Flee the country to Argentina\n  Lay back on the beach, yeah\n  Coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddhaz on the cruise\n  Line boat to Aruba for a while, yo\n  Pumped the vile so I could pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  Yo, makin' this money's the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast\n  You know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown or Downtown\n  You pick the scene\n  You gotta get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this green\n  Yo, I'mma run hysterically 'til\n  They bury me\n  Count numerically, Hills of Beverly\n  More Grands than Cherokee\n  President like Eric B and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top 10, locked in\n  Right now is not a option\n  And those who creep\n  Got the mag' in the heat\n  To guard the 5-inch screens in\n  The back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy braggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin'\n  Wasn't ready when Teddy was baggin'\n  Tossed me in the paddy wagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  'Cause we was 12 years old in\n  The Cotton Club poppin' bubb'\n  So all the fame without the fortune? Goddamn\n  You wrong!\n  Killa kid Cam'ron, survivin' in the Amazon\n  Yo, I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazin' flows\n  Money surrounded, I count it\n  While bathin' with Asian hoes\n  Back home, niggas is after me\n  I'm past the sea sippin' Daiquiris\n  Coke factories\n  Fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cuttin' up rocks to\n  Investin' in stocks\n  Nautica yachts and knots bustin'\n  Out of my socks\n  Now that blood's paid and chubby\n  All the ladies love me\n  They hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back, they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night\n  I sleep with freaks in Lamborghini Jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneekin' peeks of how my\n  Semen leaks between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I'll cut ya collar swan!\n  'Cause these is modern times\n  And only thing I see is dollar signs\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean\n  Bimm' is every teen's dream\n  Big L's a CREAM fiend with\n  More green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci? (Absolutely)\n  Harlem kids is known for\n  Felonies and sellin' keys\n  Pushin' 300Z's, GS3's and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DT's\n  Be yellin' \"Freeze!\"\n  We stash G's and keep our\n  Pocket full of centuries\n  A yo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid a threat 'cause\n  I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain\n  Said \"Act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, ya bitch chose me\n  You know the rules to the game!\n"},{"id":35866058,"name":"American Dream (Harlem Version)","trackName":"American Dream (Harlem Version)","artistName":"Children Of The Corn","albumName":"Harlem USA Bootleg","duration":270.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\nCocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\nBe in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\nCounting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\nSkunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\nCristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\nEast coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\nThis money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\nEmpty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold morphine for more green\nKept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\nAnd watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\nAnd laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\nLaid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\nFor a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\nCount numerically, hills of Beverly\nMore grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\nAnd those who creep got the Mac in the heat\nThey got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy raggin'\nLast year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\nWhen Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\nCause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\nSo all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\nKilla kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\nYo! I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazing flows\nMoney surrounded I counted\nWhile bathing with Asian hoes\nBack home niggas is after me\nI'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\nCoke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\nNautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\nNow that Bloods play the chub\nAll the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back they say my baby's ugly\nEach night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\nNeighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\nCause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\nIs every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\nWith more green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\nHarlem kids is known for felonies\nAnd sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\nGS3's, and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DTs\nBe yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\nAnd keep a pocket full of centuries\nAyo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this dream\n\nYea What? Harlem on the Rise\nBloodShed, Killa Kam\nSix Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\nMy man Mase, the Bad Boy\nUptown, McGruff\nBig L, 139, NFL, 140\nUptown nigga","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream (Harlem Version)\n  artist: Children Of The Corn\n  album: Harlem USA Bootleg\n  duration_ms: 270000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\n  This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\n  Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazing flows\n  Money surrounded I counted\n  While bathing with Asian hoes\n  Back home niggas is after me\n  I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  Now that Bloods play the chub\n  All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  With more green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DTs\n  Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this dream\n\n  Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  Uptown, McGruff\n  Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  Uptown nigga\n"},{"id":36173994,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn, McGruff, Cam'ron, Bloodshed","albumName":"Rap a Cité","duration":273.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\nCocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\nBe in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\nCounting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\nSkunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\nCristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\nEast coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\nThis money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\nEmpty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold morphine for more green\nKept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\nAnd watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\nAnd laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\nLaid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\nFor a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\nCount numerically, hills of Beverly\nMore grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\nAnd those who creep got the Mac in the heat\nThey got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy raggin'\nLast year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\nWhen Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\nCause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\nSo all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\nKilla kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\nYo! I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazing flows\nMoney surrounded I counted\nWhile bathing with Asian hoes\nBack home niggas is after me\nI'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\nCoke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\nNautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\nNow that Bloods play the chub\nAll the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back they say my baby's ugly\nEach night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\nNeighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\nCause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\nIs every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\nWith more green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\nHarlem kids is known for felonies\nAnd sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\nGS3's, and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DTs\nBe yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\nAnd keep a pocket full of centuries\nAyo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this dream\n\nYea What? Harlem on the Rise\nBloodShed, Killa Kam\nSix Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\nMy man Mase, the Bad Boy\nUptown, McGruff\nBig L, 139, NFL, 140\nUptown nigga","syncedLyrics":"[00:14.96] Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n[00:17.46] Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n[00:20.31] Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n[00:23.19] Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n[00:25.93] Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n[00:27.62] I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n[00:29.87] Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n[00:32.02] Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n[00:34.73] Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n[00:37.34] 'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n[00:40.53] Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n[00:43.59] East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n[00:46.19] 'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n[00:49.19] This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n[00:52.16] Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n[00:54.76] Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n[00:57.63] Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n[01:00.94] And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n[01:03.54] And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n[01:06.42] Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n[01:09.47] Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n[01:12.38] For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n[01:15.01] Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n[01:17.94] Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n[01:20.81] With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n[01:23.97] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[01:26.56] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[01:29.67] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[01:32.17] You got to get your own scheme\n[01:33.53] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[01:35.30] Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n[01:37.63] Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n[01:39.50] More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n[01:43.22] Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n[01:46.83] And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n[01:49.44] They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n[01:52.44] And now they got this daddy raggin'\n[01:54.61] Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n[01:56.26] When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n[01:58.58] But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n[02:01.06] Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n[02:04.29] So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n[02:07.37] Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n[02:10.15] Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n[02:11.88] With all kinds of amazing flows\n[02:13.25] Money surrounded I counted\n[02:14.62] While bathing with Asian hoes\n[02:16.12] Back home niggas is after me\n[02:17.58] I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n[02:19.27] Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n[02:21.84] From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n[02:24.06] Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n[02:26.95] Now that Bloods play the chub\n[02:28.74] All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n[02:31.21] Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n[02:33.36] Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n[02:35.62] Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n[02:39.17] Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n[02:41.53] Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n[02:44.88] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[02:47.21] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[02:50.24] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[02:53.22] You got to get your own scheme\n[02:54.91] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[02:56.36] Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n[02:58.46] Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n[03:00.85] With more green than Springsteen\n[03:02.31] You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n[03:04.77] I'm known to mack a hoochie\n[03:06.22] Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n[03:08.39] Harlem kids is known for felonies\n[03:10.43] And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n[03:12.42] GS3's, and puffin' trees\n[03:14.07] These G's breeze while DTs\n[03:16.39] Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n[03:18.00] And keep a pocket full of centuries\n[03:19.81] Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n[03:21.92] Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n[03:24.82] I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n[03:27.90] Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n[03:30.79] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:33.86] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:36.66] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:39.34] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:41.21] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[03:42.67] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:45.31] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:48.02] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:51.14] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:52.64] We ain't splittin' this dream\n[03:54.21] Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n[03:57.95] BloodShed, Killa Kam\n[04:01.28] Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n[04:05.83] My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n[04:08.86] Uptown, McGruff\n[04:11.45] Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n[04:16.30] Uptown nigga\n[04:17.52] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn, McGruff, Cam'ron, Bloodshed\n  album: Rap a Cité\n  duration_ms: 273000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  start_ms: 14960\n  end_ms: 17460\n- text: Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  start_ms: 17460\n  end_ms: 20310\n- text: Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  start_ms: 20310\n  end_ms: 23190\n- text: Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  start_ms: 23190\n  end_ms: 25930\n- text: Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  start_ms: 25930\n  end_ms: 27620\n- text: I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  start_ms: 27620\n  end_ms: 29870\n- text: Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  start_ms: 29870\n  end_ms: 32020\n- text: Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  start_ms: 32020\n  end_ms: 34730\n- text: Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  start_ms: 34730\n  end_ms: 37340\n- text: '''Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos'\n  start_ms: 37340\n  end_ms: 40530\n- text: Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  start_ms: 40530\n  end_ms: 43590\n- text: East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  start_ms: 43590\n  end_ms: 46190\n- text: '''Gruff get the cream with my team and I''m ghost'\n  start_ms: 46190\n  end_ms: 49190\n- text: This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  start_ms: 49190\n  end_ms: 52160\n- text: Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  start_ms: 52160\n  end_ms: 54760\n- text: Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  start_ms: 54760\n  end_ms: 57630\n- text: Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  start_ms: 57630\n  end_ms: 60940\n- text: And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  start_ms: 60940\n  end_ms: 63540\n- text: And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  start_ms: 63540\n  end_ms: 66420\n- text: Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  start_ms: 66420\n  end_ms: 69470\n- text: Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  start_ms: 69470\n  end_ms: 72380\n- text: For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  start_ms: 72380\n  end_ms: 75010\n- text: Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  start_ms: 75010\n  end_ms: 77940\n- text: Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  start_ms: 77940\n  end_ms: 80810\n- text: With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  start_ms: 80810\n  end_ms: 83970\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 83970\n  end_ms: 86560\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 86560\n  end_ms: 89670\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 89670\n  end_ms: 92170\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 92170\n  end_ms: 93530\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 93530\n  end_ms: 95300\n- text: Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  start_ms: 95300\n  end_ms: 97630\n- text: Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  start_ms: 97630\n  end_ms: 99500\n- text: More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  start_ms: 99500\n  end_ms: 103220\n- text: Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  start_ms: 103220\n  end_ms: 106830\n- text: And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  start_ms: 106830\n  end_ms: 109440\n- text: They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  start_ms: 109440\n  end_ms: 112440\n- text: And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  start_ms: 112440\n  end_ms: 114610\n- text: Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  start_ms: 114610\n  end_ms: 116260\n- text: When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  start_ms: 116260\n  end_ms: 118580\n- text: But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  start_ms: 118580\n  end_ms: 121060\n- text: Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  start_ms: 121060\n  end_ms: 124290\n- text: So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  start_ms: 124290\n  end_ms: 127370\n- text: Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n  start_ms: 127370\n  end_ms: 130150\n- text: Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  start_ms: 130150\n  end_ms: 131880\n- text: With all kinds of amazing flows\n  start_ms: 131880\n  end_ms: 133250\n- text: Money surrounded I counted\n  start_ms: 133250\n  end_ms: 134620\n- text: While bathing with Asian hoes\n  start_ms: 134620\n  end_ms: 136120\n- text: Back home niggas is after me\n  start_ms: 136120\n  end_ms: 137580\n- text: I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  start_ms: 137580\n  end_ms: 139270\n- text: Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  start_ms: 139270\n  end_ms: 141840\n- text: From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  start_ms: 141840\n  end_ms: 144060\n- text: Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  start_ms: 144060\n  end_ms: 146950\n- text: Now that Bloods play the chub\n  start_ms: 146950\n  end_ms: 148740\n- text: All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  start_ms: 148740\n  end_ms: 151210\n- text: Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  start_ms: 151210\n  end_ms: 153360\n- text: Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  start_ms: 153360\n  end_ms: 155620\n- text: Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  start_ms: 155620\n  end_ms: 159170\n- text: Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  start_ms: 159170\n  end_ms: 161530\n- text: Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n  start_ms: 161530\n  end_ms: 164880\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 164880\n  end_ms: 167210\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 167210\n  end_ms: 170240\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 170240\n  end_ms: 173220\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 173220\n  end_ms: 174910\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 174910\n  end_ms: 176360\n- text: Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  start_ms: 176360\n  end_ms: 178460\n- text: Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  start_ms: 178460\n  end_ms: 180850\n- text: With more green than Springsteen\n  start_ms: 180850\n  end_ms: 182310\n- text: You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  start_ms: 182310\n  end_ms: 184770\n- text: I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  start_ms: 184770\n  end_ms: 186220\n- text: Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  start_ms: 186220\n  end_ms: 188390\n- text: Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  start_ms: 188390\n  end_ms: 190430\n- text: And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  start_ms: 190430\n  end_ms: 192420\n- text: GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  start_ms: 192420\n  end_ms: 194070\n- text: These G's breeze while DTs\n  start_ms: 194070\n  end_ms: 196390\n- text: Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  start_ms: 196390\n  end_ms: 198000\n- text: And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  start_ms: 198000\n  end_ms: 199810\n- text: Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  start_ms: 199810\n  end_ms: 201920\n- text: Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  start_ms: 201920\n  end_ms: 204820\n- text: I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  start_ms: 204820\n  end_ms: 207900\n- text: Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n  start_ms: 207900\n  end_ms: 210790\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 210790\n  end_ms: 213860\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 213860\n  end_ms: 216660\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 216660\n  end_ms: 219340\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 219340\n  end_ms: 221210\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 221210\n  end_ms: 222670\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 222670\n  end_ms: 225310\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 225310\n  end_ms: 228020\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 228020\n  end_ms: 231140\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 231140\n  end_ms: 232640\n- text: We ain't splittin' this dream\n  start_ms: 232640\n  end_ms: 234210\n- text: Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  start_ms: 234210\n  end_ms: 237950\n- text: BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  start_ms: 237950\n  end_ms: 241280\n- text: Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  start_ms: 241280\n  end_ms: 245830\n- text: My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  start_ms: 245830\n  end_ms: 248860\n- text: Uptown, McGruff\n  start_ms: 248860\n  end_ms: 251450\n- text: Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  start_ms: 251450\n  end_ms: 256300\n- text: Uptown nigga\n  start_ms: 256300\n  end_ms: 257520\n- text: ''\n  start_ms: 257520\nplain: |-\n  Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\n  This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\n  Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazing flows\n  Money surrounded I counted\n  While bathing with Asian hoes\n  Back home niggas is after me\n  I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  Now that Bloods play the chub\n  All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  With more green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DTs\n  Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this dream\n\n  Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  Uptown, McGruff\n  Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  Uptown nigga\n"},{"id":36173992,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn, McGruff, Cam'ron, Bloodshed","albumName":"Rap a Cité","duration":271.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\nCocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\nBe in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\nCounting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\nSkunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\nCristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\nEast coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\nThis money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\nEmpty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold morphine for more green\nKept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\nAnd watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\nAnd laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\nLaid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\nFor a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\nCount numerically, hills of Beverly\nMore grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\nAnd those who creep got the Mac in the heat\nThey got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy raggin'\nLast year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\nWhen Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\nCause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\nSo all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\nKilla kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\nYo! I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazing flows\nMoney surrounded I counted\nWhile bathing with Asian hoes\nBack home niggas is after me\nI'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\nCoke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\nNautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\nNow that Bloods play the chub\nAll the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back they say my baby's ugly\nEach night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\nNeighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\nCause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\nIs every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\nWith more green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\nHarlem kids is known for felonies\nAnd sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\nGS3's, and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DTs\nBe yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\nAnd keep a pocket full of centuries\nAyo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this dream\n\nYea What? Harlem on the Rise\nBloodShed, Killa Kam\nSix Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\nMy man Mase, the Bad Boy\nUptown, McGruff\nBig L, 139, NFL, 140\nUptown nigga","syncedLyrics":"[00:14.96] Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n[00:17.46] Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n[00:20.31] Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n[00:23.19] Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n[00:25.93] Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n[00:27.62] I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n[00:29.87] Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n[00:32.02] Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n[00:34.73] Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n[00:37.34] 'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n[00:40.53] Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n[00:43.59] East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n[00:46.19] 'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n[00:49.19] This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n[00:52.16] Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n[00:54.76] Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n[00:57.63] Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n[01:00.94] And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n[01:03.54] And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n[01:06.42] Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n[01:09.47] Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n[01:12.38] For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n[01:15.01] Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n[01:17.94] Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n[01:20.81] With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n[01:23.97] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[01:26.56] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[01:29.67] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[01:32.17] You got to get your own scheme\n[01:33.53] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[01:35.30] Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n[01:37.63] Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n[01:39.50] More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n[01:43.22] Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n[01:46.83] And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n[01:49.44] They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n[01:52.44] And now they got this daddy raggin'\n[01:54.61] Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n[01:56.26] When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n[01:58.58] But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n[02:01.06] Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n[02:04.29] So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n[02:07.37] Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n[02:10.15] Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n[02:11.88] With all kinds of amazing flows\n[02:13.25] Money surrounded I counted\n[02:14.62] While bathing with Asian hoes\n[02:16.12] Back home niggas is after me\n[02:17.58] I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n[02:19.27] Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n[02:21.84] From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n[02:24.06] Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n[02:26.95] Now that Bloods play the chub\n[02:28.74] All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n[02:31.21] Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n[02:33.36] Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n[02:35.62] Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n[02:39.17] Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n[02:41.53] Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n[02:44.88] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[02:47.21] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[02:50.24] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[02:53.22] You got to get your own scheme\n[02:54.91] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[02:56.36] Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n[02:58.46] Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n[03:00.85] With more green than Springsteen\n[03:02.31] You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n[03:04.77] I'm known to mack a hoochie\n[03:06.22] Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n[03:08.39] Harlem kids is known for felonies\n[03:10.43] And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n[03:12.42] GS3's, and puffin' trees\n[03:14.07] These G's breeze while DTs\n[03:16.39] Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n[03:18.00] And keep a pocket full of centuries\n[03:19.81] Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n[03:21.92] Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n[03:24.82] I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n[03:27.90] Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n[03:30.79] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:33.86] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:36.66] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:39.34] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:41.21] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[03:42.67] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:45.31] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:48.02] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:51.14] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:52.64] We ain't splittin' this dream\n[03:54.21] Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n[03:57.95] BloodShed, Killa Kam\n[04:01.28] Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n[04:05.83] My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n[04:08.86] Uptown, McGruff\n[04:11.45] Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n[04:16.30] Uptown nigga\n[04:17.52] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn, McGruff, Cam'ron, Bloodshed\n  album: Rap a Cité\n  duration_ms: 271000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  start_ms: 14960\n  end_ms: 17460\n- text: Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  start_ms: 17460\n  end_ms: 20310\n- text: Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  start_ms: 20310\n  end_ms: 23190\n- text: Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  start_ms: 23190\n  end_ms: 25930\n- text: Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  start_ms: 25930\n  end_ms: 27620\n- text: I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  start_ms: 27620\n  end_ms: 29870\n- text: Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  start_ms: 29870\n  end_ms: 32020\n- text: Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  start_ms: 32020\n  end_ms: 34730\n- text: Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  start_ms: 34730\n  end_ms: 37340\n- text: '''Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos'\n  start_ms: 37340\n  end_ms: 40530\n- text: Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  start_ms: 40530\n  end_ms: 43590\n- text: East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  start_ms: 43590\n  end_ms: 46190\n- text: '''Gruff get the cream with my team and I''m ghost'\n  start_ms: 46190\n  end_ms: 49190\n- text: This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  start_ms: 49190\n  end_ms: 52160\n- text: Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  start_ms: 52160\n  end_ms: 54760\n- text: Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  start_ms: 54760\n  end_ms: 57630\n- text: Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  start_ms: 57630\n  end_ms: 60940\n- text: And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  start_ms: 60940\n  end_ms: 63540\n- text: And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  start_ms: 63540\n  end_ms: 66420\n- text: Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  start_ms: 66420\n  end_ms: 69470\n- text: Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  start_ms: 69470\n  end_ms: 72380\n- text: For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  start_ms: 72380\n  end_ms: 75010\n- text: Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  start_ms: 75010\n  end_ms: 77940\n- text: Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  start_ms: 77940\n  end_ms: 80810\n- text: With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  start_ms: 80810\n  end_ms: 83970\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 83970\n  end_ms: 86560\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 86560\n  end_ms: 89670\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 89670\n  end_ms: 92170\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 92170\n  end_ms: 93530\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 93530\n  end_ms: 95300\n- text: Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  start_ms: 95300\n  end_ms: 97630\n- text: Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  start_ms: 97630\n  end_ms: 99500\n- text: More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  start_ms: 99500\n  end_ms: 103220\n- text: Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  start_ms: 103220\n  end_ms: 106830\n- text: And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  start_ms: 106830\n  end_ms: 109440\n- text: They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  start_ms: 109440\n  end_ms: 112440\n- text: And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  start_ms: 112440\n  end_ms: 114610\n- text: Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  start_ms: 114610\n  end_ms: 116260\n- text: When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  start_ms: 116260\n  end_ms: 118580\n- text: But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  start_ms: 118580\n  end_ms: 121060\n- text: Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  start_ms: 121060\n  end_ms: 124290\n- text: So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  start_ms: 124290\n  end_ms: 127370\n- text: Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n  start_ms: 127370\n  end_ms: 130150\n- text: Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  start_ms: 130150\n  end_ms: 131880\n- text: With all kinds of amazing flows\n  start_ms: 131880\n  end_ms: 133250\n- text: Money surrounded I counted\n  start_ms: 133250\n  end_ms: 134620\n- text: While bathing with Asian hoes\n  start_ms: 134620\n  end_ms: 136120\n- text: Back home niggas is after me\n  start_ms: 136120\n  end_ms: 137580\n- text: I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  start_ms: 137580\n  end_ms: 139270\n- text: Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  start_ms: 139270\n  end_ms: 141840\n- text: From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  start_ms: 141840\n  end_ms: 144060\n- text: Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  start_ms: 144060\n  end_ms: 146950\n- text: Now that Bloods play the chub\n  start_ms: 146950\n  end_ms: 148740\n- text: All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  start_ms: 148740\n  end_ms: 151210\n- text: Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  start_ms: 151210\n  end_ms: 153360\n- text: Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  start_ms: 153360\n  end_ms: 155620\n- text: Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  start_ms: 155620\n  end_ms: 159170\n- text: Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  start_ms: 159170\n  end_ms: 161530\n- text: Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n  start_ms: 161530\n  end_ms: 164880\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 164880\n  end_ms: 167210\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 167210\n  end_ms: 170240\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 170240\n  end_ms: 173220\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 173220\n  end_ms: 174910\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 174910\n  end_ms: 176360\n- text: Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  start_ms: 176360\n  end_ms: 178460\n- text: Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  start_ms: 178460\n  end_ms: 180850\n- text: With more green than Springsteen\n  start_ms: 180850\n  end_ms: 182310\n- text: You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  start_ms: 182310\n  end_ms: 184770\n- text: I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  start_ms: 184770\n  end_ms: 186220\n- text: Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  start_ms: 186220\n  end_ms: 188390\n- text: Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  start_ms: 188390\n  end_ms: 190430\n- text: And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  start_ms: 190430\n  end_ms: 192420\n- text: GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  start_ms: 192420\n  end_ms: 194070\n- text: These G's breeze while DTs\n  start_ms: 194070\n  end_ms: 196390\n- text: Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  start_ms: 196390\n  end_ms: 198000\n- text: And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  start_ms: 198000\n  end_ms: 199810\n- text: Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  start_ms: 199810\n  end_ms: 201920\n- text: Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  start_ms: 201920\n  end_ms: 204820\n- text: I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  start_ms: 204820\n  end_ms: 207900\n- text: Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n  start_ms: 207900\n  end_ms: 210790\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 210790\n  end_ms: 213860\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 213860\n  end_ms: 216660\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 216660\n  end_ms: 219340\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 219340\n  end_ms: 221210\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 221210\n  end_ms: 222670\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 222670\n  end_ms: 225310\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 225310\n  end_ms: 228020\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 228020\n  end_ms: 231140\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 231140\n  end_ms: 232640\n- text: We ain't splittin' this dream\n  start_ms: 232640\n  end_ms: 234210\n- text: Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  start_ms: 234210\n  end_ms: 237950\n- text: BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  start_ms: 237950\n  end_ms: 241280\n- text: Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  start_ms: 241280\n  end_ms: 245830\n- text: My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  start_ms: 245830\n  end_ms: 248860\n- text: Uptown, McGruff\n  start_ms: 248860\n  end_ms: 251450\n- text: Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  start_ms: 251450\n  end_ms: 256300\n- text: Uptown nigga\n  start_ms: 256300\n  end_ms: 257520\n- text: ''\n  start_ms: 257520\nplain: |-\n  Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\n  This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\n  Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazing flows\n  Money surrounded I counted\n  While bathing with Asian hoes\n  Back home niggas is after me\n  I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  Now that Bloods play the chub\n  All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  With more green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DTs\n  Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this dream\n\n  Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  Uptown, McGruff\n  Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  Uptown nigga\n"},{"id":36174013,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children of the Corn, McGruff, Cam'ron, Bloodshed","albumName":"Rap a Cité","duration":277.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\nCocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\nBe in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\nCounting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\nSkunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\nCristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\nEast coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\nThis money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\nEmpty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold morphine for more green\nKept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\nAnd watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\nAnd laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\nLaid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\nFor a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\nCount numerically, hills of Beverly\nMore grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\nAnd those who creep got the Mac in the heat\nThey got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy raggin'\nLast year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\nWhen Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\nCause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\nSo all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\nKilla kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\nYo! I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazing flows\nMoney surrounded I counted\nWhile bathing with Asian hoes\nBack home niggas is after me\nI'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\nCoke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\nNautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\nNow that Bloods play the chub\nAll the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back they say my baby's ugly\nEach night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\nNeighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\nCause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\nIs every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\nWith more green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\nHarlem kids is known for felonies\nAnd sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\nGS3's, and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DTs\nBe yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\nAnd keep a pocket full of centuries\nAyo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this dream\n\nYea What? Harlem on the Rise\nBloodShed, Killa Kam\nSix Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\nMy man Mase, the Bad Boy\nUptown, McGruff\nBig L, 139, NFL, 140\nUptown nigga","syncedLyrics":"[00:14.96] Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n[00:17.46] Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n[00:20.31] Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n[00:23.19] Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n[00:25.93] Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n[00:27.62] I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n[00:29.87] Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n[00:32.02] Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n[00:34.73] Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n[00:37.34] 'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n[00:40.53] Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n[00:43.59] East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n[00:46.19] 'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n[00:49.19] This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n[00:52.16] Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n[00:54.76] Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n[00:57.63] Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n[01:00.94] And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n[01:03.54] And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n[01:06.42] Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n[01:09.47] Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n[01:12.38] For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n[01:15.01] Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n[01:17.94] Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n[01:20.81] With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n[01:23.97] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[01:26.56] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[01:29.67] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[01:32.17] You got to get your own scheme\n[01:33.53] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[01:35.30] Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n[01:37.63] Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n[01:39.50] More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n[01:43.22] Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n[01:46.83] And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n[01:49.44] They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n[01:52.44] And now they got this daddy raggin'\n[01:54.61] Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n[01:56.26] When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n[01:58.58] But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n[02:01.06] Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n[02:04.29] So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n[02:07.37] Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n[02:10.15] Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n[02:11.88] With all kinds of amazing flows\n[02:13.25] Money surrounded I counted\n[02:14.62] While bathing with Asian hoes\n[02:16.12] Back home niggas is after me\n[02:17.58] I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n[02:19.27] Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n[02:21.84] From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n[02:24.06] Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n[02:26.95] Now that Bloods play the chub\n[02:28.74] All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n[02:31.21] Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n[02:33.36] Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n[02:35.62] Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n[02:39.17] Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n[02:41.53] Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n[02:44.88] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[02:47.21] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[02:50.24] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[02:53.22] You got to get your own scheme\n[02:54.91] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[02:56.36] Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n[02:58.46] Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n[03:00.85] With more green than Springsteen\n[03:02.31] You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n[03:04.77] I'm known to mack a hoochie\n[03:06.22] Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n[03:08.39] Harlem kids is known for felonies\n[03:10.43] And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n[03:12.42] GS3's, and puffin' trees\n[03:14.07] These G's breeze while DTs\n[03:16.39] Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n[03:18.00] And keep a pocket full of centuries\n[03:19.81] Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n[03:21.92] Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n[03:24.82] I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n[03:27.90] Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n[03:30.79] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:33.86] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:36.66] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:39.34] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:41.21] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[03:42.67] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:45.31] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:48.02] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:51.14] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:52.64] We ain't splittin' this dream\n[03:54.21] Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n[03:57.95] BloodShed, Killa Kam\n[04:01.28] Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n[04:05.83] My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n[04:08.86] Uptown, McGruff\n[04:11.45] Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n[04:16.30] Uptown nigga\n[04:17.52] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children of the Corn, McGruff, Cam'ron, Bloodshed\n  album: Rap a Cité\n  duration_ms: 277000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  start_ms: 14960\n  end_ms: 17460\n- text: Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  start_ms: 17460\n  end_ms: 20310\n- text: Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  start_ms: 20310\n  end_ms: 23190\n- text: Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  start_ms: 23190\n  end_ms: 25930\n- text: Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  start_ms: 25930\n  end_ms: 27620\n- text: I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  start_ms: 27620\n  end_ms: 29870\n- text: Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  start_ms: 29870\n  end_ms: 32020\n- text: Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  start_ms: 32020\n  end_ms: 34730\n- text: Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  start_ms: 34730\n  end_ms: 37340\n- text: '''Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos'\n  start_ms: 37340\n  end_ms: 40530\n- text: Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  start_ms: 40530\n  end_ms: 43590\n- text: East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  start_ms: 43590\n  end_ms: 46190\n- text: '''Gruff get the cream with my team and I''m ghost'\n  start_ms: 46190\n  end_ms: 49190\n- text: This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  start_ms: 49190\n  end_ms: 52160\n- text: Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  start_ms: 52160\n  end_ms: 54760\n- text: Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  start_ms: 54760\n  end_ms: 57630\n- text: Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  start_ms: 57630\n  end_ms: 60940\n- text: And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  start_ms: 60940\n  end_ms: 63540\n- text: And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  start_ms: 63540\n  end_ms: 66420\n- text: Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  start_ms: 66420\n  end_ms: 69470\n- text: Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  start_ms: 69470\n  end_ms: 72380\n- text: For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  start_ms: 72380\n  end_ms: 75010\n- text: Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  start_ms: 75010\n  end_ms: 77940\n- text: Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  start_ms: 77940\n  end_ms: 80810\n- text: With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  start_ms: 80810\n  end_ms: 83970\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 83970\n  end_ms: 86560\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 86560\n  end_ms: 89670\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 89670\n  end_ms: 92170\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 92170\n  end_ms: 93530\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 93530\n  end_ms: 95300\n- text: Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  start_ms: 95300\n  end_ms: 97630\n- text: Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  start_ms: 97630\n  end_ms: 99500\n- text: More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  start_ms: 99500\n  end_ms: 103220\n- text: Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  start_ms: 103220\n  end_ms: 106830\n- text: And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  start_ms: 106830\n  end_ms: 109440\n- text: They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  start_ms: 109440\n  end_ms: 112440\n- text: And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  start_ms: 112440\n  end_ms: 114610\n- text: Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  start_ms: 114610\n  end_ms: 116260\n- text: When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  start_ms: 116260\n  end_ms: 118580\n- text: But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  start_ms: 118580\n  end_ms: 121060\n- text: Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  start_ms: 121060\n  end_ms: 124290\n- text: So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  start_ms: 124290\n  end_ms: 127370\n- text: Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n  start_ms: 127370\n  end_ms: 130150\n- text: Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  start_ms: 130150\n  end_ms: 131880\n- text: With all kinds of amazing flows\n  start_ms: 131880\n  end_ms: 133250\n- text: Money surrounded I counted\n  start_ms: 133250\n  end_ms: 134620\n- text: While bathing with Asian hoes\n  start_ms: 134620\n  end_ms: 136120\n- text: Back home niggas is after me\n  start_ms: 136120\n  end_ms: 137580\n- text: I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  start_ms: 137580\n  end_ms: 139270\n- text: Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  start_ms: 139270\n  end_ms: 141840\n- text: From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  start_ms: 141840\n  end_ms: 144060\n- text: Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  start_ms: 144060\n  end_ms: 146950\n- text: Now that Bloods play the chub\n  start_ms: 146950\n  end_ms: 148740\n- text: All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  start_ms: 148740\n  end_ms: 151210\n- text: Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  start_ms: 151210\n  end_ms: 153360\n- text: Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  start_ms: 153360\n  end_ms: 155620\n- text: Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  start_ms: 155620\n  end_ms: 159170\n- text: Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  start_ms: 159170\n  end_ms: 161530\n- text: Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n  start_ms: 161530\n  end_ms: 164880\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 164880\n  end_ms: 167210\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 167210\n  end_ms: 170240\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 170240\n  end_ms: 173220\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 173220\n  end_ms: 174910\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 174910\n  end_ms: 176360\n- text: Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  start_ms: 176360\n  end_ms: 178460\n- text: Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  start_ms: 178460\n  end_ms: 180850\n- text: With more green than Springsteen\n  start_ms: 180850\n  end_ms: 182310\n- text: You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  start_ms: 182310\n  end_ms: 184770\n- text: I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  start_ms: 184770\n  end_ms: 186220\n- text: Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  start_ms: 186220\n  end_ms: 188390\n- text: Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  start_ms: 188390\n  end_ms: 190430\n- text: And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  start_ms: 190430\n  end_ms: 192420\n- text: GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  start_ms: 192420\n  end_ms: 194070\n- text: These G's breeze while DTs\n  start_ms: 194070\n  end_ms: 196390\n- text: Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  start_ms: 196390\n  end_ms: 198000\n- text: And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  start_ms: 198000\n  end_ms: 199810\n- text: Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  start_ms: 199810\n  end_ms: 201920\n- text: Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  start_ms: 201920\n  end_ms: 204820\n- text: I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  start_ms: 204820\n  end_ms: 207900\n- text: Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n  start_ms: 207900\n  end_ms: 210790\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 210790\n  end_ms: 213860\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 213860\n  end_ms: 216660\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 216660\n  end_ms: 219340\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 219340\n  end_ms: 221210\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 221210\n  end_ms: 222670\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 222670\n  end_ms: 225310\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 225310\n  end_ms: 228020\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 228020\n  end_ms: 231140\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 231140\n  end_ms: 232640\n- text: We ain't splittin' this dream\n  start_ms: 232640\n  end_ms: 234210\n- text: Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  start_ms: 234210\n  end_ms: 237950\n- text: BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  start_ms: 237950\n  end_ms: 241280\n- text: Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  start_ms: 241280\n  end_ms: 245830\n- text: My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  start_ms: 245830\n  end_ms: 248860\n- text: Uptown, McGruff\n  start_ms: 248860\n  end_ms: 251450\n- text: Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  start_ms: 251450\n  end_ms: 256300\n- text: Uptown nigga\n  start_ms: 256300\n  end_ms: 257520\n- text: ''\n  start_ms: 257520\nplain: |-\n  Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\n  This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\n  Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazing flows\n  Money surrounded I counted\n  While bathing with Asian hoes\n  Back home niggas is after me\n  I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  Now that Bloods play the chub\n  All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  With more green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DTs\n  Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this dream\n\n  Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  Uptown, McGruff\n  Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  Uptown nigga\n"},{"id":33589384,"name":"American Dream","trackName":"American Dream","artistName":"Children Of The Corn; McGruff; Cam'ron; Bloodshed; Mase; Big L","albumName":"Rap a Cité","duration":271.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\nCocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\nBe in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\nCounting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\nGuarded by thugs and Rottweilers\nI flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\nNiggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\nSkunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\nCristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\nExpensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\nEast coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\nThis money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\nEmpty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\nSince 14, I sold morphine for more green\nKept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\nAnd watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\nAnd laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\nLaid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\nSmokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\nFor a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\nThen become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\nGet paid so I can lay low in San Diego\nWith yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\nCount numerically, hills of Beverly\nMore grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\nDrug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\nAnd those who creep got the Mac in the heat\nThey got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\nAnd now they got this daddy raggin'\nLast year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\nWhen Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\nBut ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\nCause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\nSo all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\nKilla kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\nYo! I leave you dazed and froze\nWith all kinds of amazing flows\nMoney surrounded I counted\nWhile bathing with Asian hoes\nBack home niggas is after me\nI'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\nCoke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\nFrom cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\nNautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\nNow that Bloods play the chub\nAll the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\nBehind my back they say my baby's ugly\nEach night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\nNeighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\nMess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\nCause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nCheck it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\nIs every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\nWith more green than Springsteen\nYou know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\nI'm known to mack a hoochie\nDo I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\nHarlem kids is known for felonies\nAnd sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\nGS3's, and puffin' trees\nThese G's breeze while DTs\nBe yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\nAnd keep a pocket full of centuries\nAyo, I'm set for the rest of my life\nSome clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\nI stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\nNigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this cream\n\nYo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\nEast Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\nWhether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\nYou got to get your own scheme\nWe ain't splittin' this dream\n\nYea What? Harlem on the Rise\nBloodShed, Killa Kam\nSix Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\nMy man Mase, the Bad Boy\nUptown, McGruff\nBig L, 139, NFL, 140\nUptown nigga","syncedLyrics":"[00:14.96] Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n[00:17.46] Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n[00:20.31] Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n[00:23.19] Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n[00:25.93] Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n[00:27.62] I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n[00:29.87] Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n[00:32.02] Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n[00:34.73] Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n[00:37.34] 'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n[00:40.53] Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n[00:43.59] East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n[00:46.19] 'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n[00:49.19] This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n[00:52.16] Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n[00:54.76] Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n[00:57.63] Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n[01:00.94] And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n[01:03.54] And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n[01:06.42] Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n[01:09.47] Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n[01:12.38] For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n[01:15.01] Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n[01:17.94] Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n[01:20.81] With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n[01:23.97] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[01:26.56] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[01:29.67] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[01:32.17] You got to get your own scheme\n[01:33.53] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[01:35.30] Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n[01:37.63] Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n[01:39.50] More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n[01:43.22] Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n[01:46.83] And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n[01:49.44] They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n[01:52.44] And now they got this daddy raggin'\n[01:54.61] Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n[01:56.26] When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n[01:58.58] But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n[02:01.06] Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n[02:04.29] So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n[02:07.37] Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n[02:10.15] Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n[02:11.88] With all kinds of amazing flows\n[02:13.25] Money surrounded I counted\n[02:14.62] While bathing with Asian hoes\n[02:16.12] Back home niggas is after me\n[02:17.58] I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n[02:19.27] Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n[02:21.84] From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n[02:24.06] Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n[02:26.95] Now that Bloods play the chub\n[02:28.74] All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n[02:31.21] Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n[02:33.36] Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n[02:35.62] Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n[02:39.17] Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n[02:41.53] Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n[02:44.88] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[02:47.21] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[02:50.24] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[02:53.22] You got to get your own scheme\n[02:54.91] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[02:56.36] Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n[02:58.46] Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n[03:00.85] With more green than Springsteen\n[03:02.31] You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n[03:04.77] I'm known to mack a hoochie\n[03:06.22] Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n[03:08.39] Harlem kids is known for felonies\n[03:10.43] And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n[03:12.42] GS3's, and puffin' trees\n[03:14.07] These G's breeze while DTs\n[03:16.39] Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n[03:18.00] And keep a pocket full of centuries\n[03:19.81] Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n[03:21.92] Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n[03:24.82] I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n[03:27.90] Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n[03:30.79] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:33.86] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:36.66] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:39.34] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:41.21] We ain't splittin' this cream\n[03:42.67] Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n[03:45.31] East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n[03:48.02] Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n[03:51.14] You got to get your own scheme\n[03:52.64] We ain't splittin' this dream\n[03:54.21] Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n[03:57.95] BloodShed, Killa Kam\n[04:01.28] Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n[04:05.83] My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n[04:08.86] Uptown, McGruff\n[04:11.45] Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n[04:16.30] Uptown nigga\n[04:17.52] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Dream\n  artist: Children Of The Corn; McGruff; Cam'ron; Bloodshed; Mase; Big L\n  album: Rap a Cité\n  duration_ms: 271000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  start_ms: 14960\n  end_ms: 17460\n- text: Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  start_ms: 17460\n  end_ms: 20310\n- text: Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  start_ms: 20310\n  end_ms: 23190\n- text: Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  start_ms: 23190\n  end_ms: 25930\n- text: Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  start_ms: 25930\n  end_ms: 27620\n- text: I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  start_ms: 27620\n  end_ms: 29870\n- text: Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  start_ms: 29870\n  end_ms: 32020\n- text: Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  start_ms: 32020\n  end_ms: 34730\n- text: Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  start_ms: 34730\n  end_ms: 37340\n- text: '''Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos'\n  start_ms: 37340\n  end_ms: 40530\n- text: Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  start_ms: 40530\n  end_ms: 43590\n- text: East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  start_ms: 43590\n  end_ms: 46190\n- text: '''Gruff get the cream with my team and I''m ghost'\n  start_ms: 46190\n  end_ms: 49190\n- text: This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  start_ms: 49190\n  end_ms: 52160\n- text: Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  start_ms: 52160\n  end_ms: 54760\n- text: Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  start_ms: 54760\n  end_ms: 57630\n- text: Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  start_ms: 57630\n  end_ms: 60940\n- text: And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  start_ms: 60940\n  end_ms: 63540\n- text: And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  start_ms: 63540\n  end_ms: 66420\n- text: Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  start_ms: 66420\n  end_ms: 69470\n- text: Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  start_ms: 69470\n  end_ms: 72380\n- text: For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  start_ms: 72380\n  end_ms: 75010\n- text: Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  start_ms: 75010\n  end_ms: 77940\n- text: Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  start_ms: 77940\n  end_ms: 80810\n- text: With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n  start_ms: 80810\n  end_ms: 83970\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 83970\n  end_ms: 86560\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 86560\n  end_ms: 89670\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 89670\n  end_ms: 92170\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 92170\n  end_ms: 93530\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 93530\n  end_ms: 95300\n- text: Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  start_ms: 95300\n  end_ms: 97630\n- text: Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  start_ms: 97630\n  end_ms: 99500\n- text: More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  start_ms: 99500\n  end_ms: 103220\n- text: Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  start_ms: 103220\n  end_ms: 106830\n- text: And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  start_ms: 106830\n  end_ms: 109440\n- text: They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  start_ms: 109440\n  end_ms: 112440\n- text: And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  start_ms: 112440\n  end_ms: 114610\n- text: Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  start_ms: 114610\n  end_ms: 116260\n- text: When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  start_ms: 116260\n  end_ms: 118580\n- text: But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  start_ms: 118580\n  end_ms: 121060\n- text: Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  start_ms: 121060\n  end_ms: 124290\n- text: So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  start_ms: 124290\n  end_ms: 127370\n- text: Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n  start_ms: 127370\n  end_ms: 130150\n- text: Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  start_ms: 130150\n  end_ms: 131880\n- text: With all kinds of amazing flows\n  start_ms: 131880\n  end_ms: 133250\n- text: Money surrounded I counted\n  start_ms: 133250\n  end_ms: 134620\n- text: While bathing with Asian hoes\n  start_ms: 134620\n  end_ms: 136120\n- text: Back home niggas is after me\n  start_ms: 136120\n  end_ms: 137580\n- text: I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  start_ms: 137580\n  end_ms: 139270\n- text: Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  start_ms: 139270\n  end_ms: 141840\n- text: From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  start_ms: 141840\n  end_ms: 144060\n- text: Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  start_ms: 144060\n  end_ms: 146950\n- text: Now that Bloods play the chub\n  start_ms: 146950\n  end_ms: 148740\n- text: All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  start_ms: 148740\n  end_ms: 151210\n- text: Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  start_ms: 151210\n  end_ms: 153360\n- text: Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  start_ms: 153360\n  end_ms: 155620\n- text: Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  start_ms: 155620\n  end_ms: 159170\n- text: Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  start_ms: 159170\n  end_ms: 161530\n- text: Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n  start_ms: 161530\n  end_ms: 164880\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 164880\n  end_ms: 167210\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 167210\n  end_ms: 170240\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 170240\n  end_ms: 173220\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 173220\n  end_ms: 174910\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 174910\n  end_ms: 176360\n- text: Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  start_ms: 176360\n  end_ms: 178460\n- text: Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  start_ms: 178460\n  end_ms: 180850\n- text: With more green than Springsteen\n  start_ms: 180850\n  end_ms: 182310\n- text: You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  start_ms: 182310\n  end_ms: 184770\n- text: I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  start_ms: 184770\n  end_ms: 186220\n- text: Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  start_ms: 186220\n  end_ms: 188390\n- text: Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  start_ms: 188390\n  end_ms: 190430\n- text: And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  start_ms: 190430\n  end_ms: 192420\n- text: GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  start_ms: 192420\n  end_ms: 194070\n- text: These G's breeze while DTs\n  start_ms: 194070\n  end_ms: 196390\n- text: Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  start_ms: 196390\n  end_ms: 198000\n- text: And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  start_ms: 198000\n  end_ms: 199810\n- text: Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  start_ms: 199810\n  end_ms: 201920\n- text: Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  start_ms: 201920\n  end_ms: 204820\n- text: I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  start_ms: 204820\n  end_ms: 207900\n- text: Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n  start_ms: 207900\n  end_ms: 210790\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 210790\n  end_ms: 213860\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 213860\n  end_ms: 216660\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 216660\n  end_ms: 219340\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 219340\n  end_ms: 221210\n- text: We ain't splittin' this cream\n  start_ms: 221210\n  end_ms: 222670\n- text: Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  start_ms: 222670\n  end_ms: 225310\n- text: East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  start_ms: 225310\n  end_ms: 228020\n- text: Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  start_ms: 228020\n  end_ms: 231140\n- text: You got to get your own scheme\n  start_ms: 231140\n  end_ms: 232640\n- text: We ain't splittin' this dream\n  start_ms: 232640\n  end_ms: 234210\n- text: Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  start_ms: 234210\n  end_ms: 237950\n- text: BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  start_ms: 237950\n  end_ms: 241280\n- text: Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  start_ms: 241280\n  end_ms: 245830\n- text: My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  start_ms: 245830\n  end_ms: 248860\n- text: Uptown, McGruff\n  start_ms: 248860\n  end_ms: 251450\n- text: Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  start_ms: 251450\n  end_ms: 256300\n- text: Uptown nigga\n  start_ms: 256300\n  end_ms: 257520\n- text: ''\n  start_ms: 257520\nplain: |-\n  Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream\n  Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters\n  Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' ganja smoke\n  Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke\n  Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers\n  I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars\n  Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers\n  Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper\n  Cristal sipper, I've been a willy for a while nigga\n  'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos\n  Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls\n  East coast, West coast, fiends overdose\n  'Gruff get the cream with my team and I'm ghost\n\n  This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV\n  Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy\n  Since 14, I sold morphine for more green\n  Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawsting\n  And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers\n  And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina\n  Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters\n  Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba\n  For a while, yo; pump the vowel so I can pile dough\n  Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'\n  Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego\n  With yayo and ship it out whenever I say so\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! I'mma run hysterically, til they bury me\n  Count numerically, hills of Beverly\n  More grands than cherokee; president like Eric B., and Rakim\n  Drug game, I'm top ten; locked in? Right now it's not an option\n  And those who creep got the Mac in the heat\n  They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat\n  And now they got this daddy raggin'\n  Last year, had me saggin', wasn't ready\n  When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon\n  But ain't nobody out here stoppin' love\n  Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'\n  So all the fame without the fortune; goddamn, you wrong\n  Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon\n\n  Yo! I leave you dazed and froze\n  With all kinds of amazing flows\n  Money surrounded I counted\n  While bathing with Asian hoes\n  Back home niggas is after me\n  I'm back to sea, sippin' daquiris\n  Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me\n  From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks\n  Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks\n  Now that Bloods play the chub\n  All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby\n  Behind my back they say my baby's ugly\n  Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps\n  Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets\n  Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan\n  Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Check it! To be seen clean in the mean Beam\n  Is every team's dream; Big L's a cream fiend\n  With more green than Springsteen\n  You know I'm crazy quick to smack a groupie\n  I'm known to mack a hoochie\n  Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)\n  Harlem kids is known for felonies\n  And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's\n  GS3's, and puffin' trees\n  These G's breeze while DTs\n  Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese\n  And keep a pocket full of centuries\n  Ayo, I'm set for the rest of my life\n  Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife\n  I stuck my tool to his brain, said \"act a fool and get slain\"\n  Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this cream\n\n  Yo! Makin' this money is the American Dream\n  East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean\n  Whether it's Uptown, Downtown; you pick the scene\n  You got to get your own scheme\n  We ain't splittin' this dream\n\n  Yea What? Harlem on the Rise\n  BloodShed, Killa Kam\n  Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie\n  My man Mase, the Bad Boy\n  Uptown, McGruff\n  Big L, 139, NFL, 140\n  Uptown nigga\n"}]