[{"id":21402425,"name":"Catch 22","trackName":"Catch 22","artistName":"DJ Quik","albumName":"Trauma Instrumentals","duration":216.024,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\nWith your pet in the passenger seat\nAss at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n(Faster please) California masterpiece\nRecorded partially in New York\nWith a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n(She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\nDon't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\nBut I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\nNow they comin back to get off of the curb\nbecause I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\nI ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\nNow they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\nShe don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\nAnd I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\nI'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\nBut I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\nI ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\ninto a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\nNow quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\nIt ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\nAnd posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\nBut you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\nt t t was a girl that I knew\nBut she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\nHer saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\nWith her elephant feet\nI got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\nProbably because I got this 38 in my mouth\nAnd I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\nLike Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\nHennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\nI make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\nAnd I'm upset because I'm all alone\nHomies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\nPluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\nBlister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\nOut in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\nExcept dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\nThat's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\nHow many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\nGet snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\nAnd who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\nAnd how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\nIt's fucked up\n\nI made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\nShe knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\nShe know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\nAnd that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\nAnd you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\nIf being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\nCause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\nMy enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\nIt's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\nGot no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\nCause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\nYou talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\nIn the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\nWhile these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\nI'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\nAnd befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Catch 22\n  artist: DJ Quik\n  album: Trauma Instrumentals\n  duration_ms: 216024\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\n  With your pet in the passenger seat\n  Ass at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n  (Faster please) California masterpiece\n  Recorded partially in New York\n  With a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n  (She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\n  Don't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\n  But I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\n  Now they comin back to get off of the curb\n  because I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\n  I ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\n  Now they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\n  She don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\n  And I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\n  I'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\n  But I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\n  I ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\n  into a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\n  Now quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\n  It ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\n  And posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\n  But you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\n  t t t was a girl that I knew\n  But she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\n  Her saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\n  With her elephant feet\n  I got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\n  Probably because I got this 38 in my mouth\n  And I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\n  Like Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\n  Hennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\n  I make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\n  And I'm upset because I'm all alone\n  Homies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\n  Pluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\n  Blister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\n  Out in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\n  Except dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\n  That's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n  22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\n  How many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\n  Get snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\n  And who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\n  And how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\n  It's fucked up\n\n  I made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\n  She knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\n  She know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\n  And that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\n  And you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\n  If being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\n  Cause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\n  My enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\n  It's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\n  Got no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\n  Cause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\n  You talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\n  In the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\n  While these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\n  I'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\n  And befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!\n"},{"id":12065291,"name":"Catch 22","trackName":"Catch 22","artistName":"Quik, DJ","albumName":"Trauma","duration":213.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\nWith your pet in the passenger seat\nAss at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n(Faster please) California masterpiece\nRecorded partially in New York\nWith a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n(She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\nDon't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\nBut I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\nNow they comin back to get off of the curb\nbecause I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\nI ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\nNow they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\nShe don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\nAnd I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\nI'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\nBut I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\nI ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\ninto a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\nNow quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\nIt ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\nAnd posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\nBut you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\nt t t was a girl that I knew\nBut she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\nHer saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\nWith her elephant feet\nI got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\nProbably because I got this 38 in my mouth\nAnd I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\nLike Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\nHennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\nI make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\nAnd I'm upset because I'm all alone\nHomies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\nPluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\nBlister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\nOut in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\nExcept dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\nThat's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\nHow many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\nGet snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\nAnd who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\nAnd how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\nIt's fucked up\n\nI made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\nShe knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\nShe know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\nAnd that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\nAnd you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\nIf being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\nCause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\nMy enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\nIt's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\nGot no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\nCause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\nYou talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\nIn the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\nWhile these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\nI'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\nAnd befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Catch 22\n  artist: Quik, DJ\n  album: Trauma\n  duration_ms: 213000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\n  With your pet in the passenger seat\n  Ass at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n  (Faster please) California masterpiece\n  Recorded partially in New York\n  With a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n  (She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\n  Don't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\n  But I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\n  Now they comin back to get off of the curb\n  because I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\n  I ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\n  Now they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\n  She don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\n  And I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\n  I'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\n  But I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\n  I ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\n  into a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\n  Now quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\n  It ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\n  And posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\n  But you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\n  t t t was a girl that I knew\n  But she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\n  Her saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\n  With her elephant feet\n  I got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\n  Probably because I got this 38 in my mouth\n  And I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\n  Like Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\n  Hennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\n  I make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\n  And I'm upset because I'm all alone\n  Homies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\n  Pluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\n  Blister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\n  Out in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\n  Except dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\n  That's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n  22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\n  How many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\n  Get snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\n  And who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\n  And how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\n  It's fucked up\n\n  I made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\n  She knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\n  She know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\n  And that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\n  And you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\n  If being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\n  Cause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\n  My enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\n  It's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\n  Got no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\n  Cause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\n  You talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\n  In the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\n  While these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\n  I'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\n  And befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!\n"},{"id":9717894,"name":"Catch 22","trackName":"Catch 22","artistName":"DJ Quik","albumName":"Trauma","duration":213.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\nWith your pet in the passenger seat\nAss at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n(Faster please) California masterpiece\nRecorded partially in New York\nWith a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n(She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\nDon't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\nBut I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\nNow they comin back to get off of the curb\nbecause I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\nI ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\nNow they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\nShe don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\nAnd I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\nI'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\nBut I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\nI ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\ninto a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\nNow quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\nIt ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\nAnd posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\nBut you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\nt t t was a girl that I knew\nBut she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\nHer saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\nWith her elephant feet\nI got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\nProbably because I got this 38 in my mouth\nAnd I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\nLike Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\nHennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\nI make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\nAnd I'm upset because I'm all alone\nHomies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\nPluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\nBlister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\nOut in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\nExcept dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\nThat's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\nHow many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\nGet snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\nAnd who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\nAnd how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\nIt's fucked up\n\nI made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\nShe knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\nShe know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\nAnd that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\nAnd you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\nIf being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\nCause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\nMy enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\nIt's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\nGot no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\nCause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\nYou talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\nIn the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\nWhile these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\nI'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\nAnd befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Catch 22\n  artist: DJ Quik\n  album: Trauma\n  duration_ms: 213000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\n  With your pet in the passenger seat\n  Ass at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n  (Faster please) California masterpiece\n  Recorded partially in New York\n  With a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n  (She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\n  Don't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\n  But I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\n  Now they comin back to get off of the curb\n  because I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\n  I ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\n  Now they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\n  She don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\n  And I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\n  I'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\n  But I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\n  I ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\n  into a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\n  Now quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\n  It ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\n  And posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\n  But you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\n  t t t was a girl that I knew\n  But she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\n  Her saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\n  With her elephant feet\n  I got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\n  Probably because I got this 38 in my mouth\n  And I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\n  Like Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\n  Hennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\n  I make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\n  And I'm upset because I'm all alone\n  Homies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\n  Pluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\n  Blister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\n  Out in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\n  Except dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\n  That's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n  22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\n  How many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\n  Get snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\n  And who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\n  And how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\n  It's fucked up\n\n  I made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\n  She knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\n  She know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\n  And that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\n  And you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\n  If being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\n  Cause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\n  My enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\n  It's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\n  Got no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\n  Cause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\n  You talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\n  In the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\n  While these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\n  I'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\n  And befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!\n"},{"id":29500356,"name":"Catch[Ayigbe_Boy]22","trackName":"Catch[Ayigbe_Boy]22","artistName":"DJ Quik","albumName":"Trauma","duration":213.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\nWith your pet in the passenger seat\nAss at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n(Faster please) California masterpiece\nRecorded partially in New York\nWith a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n(She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\nDon't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\nBut I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\nNow they comin back to get off of the curb\nbecause I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\nI ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\nNow they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\nShe don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\nAnd I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\nI'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\nBut I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\nI ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\ninto a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\nNow quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\nIt ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\nAnd posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\nBut you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\nWe gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\nt t t was a girl that I knew\nBut she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\nHer saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\nWith her elephant feet\nI got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\nProbably because I got this 38 in my mouth\nAnd I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\nLike Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\nHennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\nI make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\nAnd I'm upset because I'm all alone\nHomies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\nPluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\nBlister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\nOut in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\nExcept dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\nThat's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\nHow many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\nGet snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\nAnd who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\nAnd how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\nIt's fucked up\n\nI made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\nShe knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\nShe know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\nAnd that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\nAnd you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\nIf being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\nCause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\nMy enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\nIt's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\nGot no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\nCause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\nYou talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\nIn the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\nWhile these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\nI'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\nAnd befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Catch[Ayigbe_Boy]22\n  artist: DJ Quik\n  album: Trauma\n  duration_ms: 213000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette\n  With your pet in the passenger seat\n  Ass at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed\n  (Faster please) California masterpiece\n  Recorded partially in New York\n  With a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt\n  (She loved it) primarily under the circumstance\n  Don't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms\n  But I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter\n  Now they comin back to get off of the curb\n  because I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)\n  I ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said\n  Now they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed\n  She don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me\n  And I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me\n  I'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty\n  But I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty\n  I ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose\n  into a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless\n\n  Now quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge\n  It ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage\n  And posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm\n  But you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne\n  We gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!\n\n  t t t was a girl that I knew\n  But she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh\n  Her saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep\n  With her elephant feet\n  I got a whole lot to say but it won't come out\n  Probably because I got this 38 in my mouth\n  And I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up\n  Like Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb\n  Hennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o\n  I make the flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go\n  And I'm upset because I'm all alone\n  Homies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone\n  Pluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot\n  Blister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks\n  Out in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about\n  Except dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money\n  That's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit\n  22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit\n  How many gangs can kill people under the age of 12\n  Get snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years\n  And who gets recognized for pouring out the beer\n  And how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear\n  It's fucked up\n\n  I made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest\n  She knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it\n  She know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em\n  And that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast\n  And you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within\n  If being dope is an abomination then I am a sin\n  Cause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end\n  My enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin\n  It's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well\n  Got no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell\n  Cause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail\n  You talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail\n  In the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball\n  While these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall\n  I'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth\n  And befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!\n"}]