[{"id":6302304,"name":"All a's","trackName":"All a's","artistName":"Goodie Mob","albumName":"World Party","duration":327.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\nFakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\nMustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\nPassin by these haters like we got all A's\nSay say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\nNuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\nI'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\nThey was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\nI'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\nMobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\nThey slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\nBut at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\nOkay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\nBut I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\nKeep point four-five calibers of chrome\nI'm, comin forth to carry you home\nYo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\nUh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\nBlowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\nAnd oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\nThere's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\nThese are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\nBut let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\nRidin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\nMy nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\nNo one includin me, should be understimated\nBut don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\nCause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\nPop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\nOff the block before your carcass drop\nCan't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\nOut your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\nBrown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\nAin't, barrin none hundred round draw\nNothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\nTakin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\nEverytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\nWhen they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\nThe world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\nI still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\nGet up off and give me room, activate, motivate\nY'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\nBlock for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\nGone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\nShoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\nBlock me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\nOn the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\nLookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\nWatch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\nAnd my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\nLookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\nWhatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\nNow watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\nHoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\nDope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\nBlowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\nI wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\nStomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\nGoodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\nAnd my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\nIs bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\nA-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\nAnd the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\nNigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: All a's\n  artist: Goodie Mob\n  album: World Party\n  duration_ms: 327000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\n  Fakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\n  Mustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\n  Passin by these haters like we got all A's\n  Say say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\n  Nuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\n  I'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\n  They was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\n  I'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\n  Mobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\n  They slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\n  But at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\n  Okay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\n  But I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\n  Keep point four-five calibers of chrome\n  I'm, comin forth to carry you home\n  Yo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\n  Uh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\n  Blowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\n  And oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\n  There's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\n  These are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\n  But let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\n  Ridin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\n  My nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\n  No one includin me, should be understimated\n  But don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\n  Cause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\n  Pop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\n  Off the block before your carcass drop\n  Can't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\n  Out your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\n  Brown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\n  Ain't, barrin none hundred round draw\n  Nothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\n  Takin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\n  Everytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\n  When they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\n  The world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\n  I still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\n  Get up off and give me room, activate, motivate\n  Y'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\n  Block for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\n  Gone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\n  Shoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\n  Block me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\n  On the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\n  Lookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\n  Watch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\n  And my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\n  Lookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\n  Whatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\n  Now watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\n  Hoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\n  Dope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\n  Blowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\n  I wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\n  Stomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\n  Goodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\n  And my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\n  Is bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\n  A-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\n  And the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\n  Nigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS\n"},{"id":16551299,"name":"All A's (feat. Backbone)","trackName":"All A's (feat. Backbone)","artistName":"Goodie Mob","albumName":"World Party","duration":327.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\nFakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\nMustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\nPassin by these haters like we got all A's\nSay say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\nNuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\nI'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\nThey was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\nI'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\nMobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\nThey slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\nBut at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\nOkay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\nBut I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\nKeep point four-five calibers of chrome\nI'm, comin forth to carry you home\nYo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\nUh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\nBlowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\nAnd oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\nThere's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\nThese are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\nbut let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\nRidin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\nMy nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\nNo one includin me, should be understimated\nBut don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\nCause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\nPop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\noff the block before your carcass drop\nCan't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\nOut your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\nbrown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\nAin't, barrin none hundred round draw\nNothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\nTakin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\nEverytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\nWhen they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\nThe world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\nI still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\nGet up off and give me room, activate, motivate\nY'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\nBlock for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\nGone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\nShoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\nblock me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\non the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\nLookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\nWatch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\nand my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\nLookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\nwhatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\nNow watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\nHoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\nDope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\nBlowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\nI wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\nStomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\nGoodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\nand my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\nis bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\nA-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\nAnd the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\nNigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: All A's (feat. Backbone)\n  artist: Goodie Mob\n  album: World Party\n  duration_ms: 327000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\n  Fakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\n  Mustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\n  Passin by these haters like we got all A's\n  Say say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\n  Nuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\n  I'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\n  They was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\n  I'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\n  Mobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\n  They slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\n  But at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\n  Okay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\n  But I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\n  Keep point four-five calibers of chrome\n  I'm, comin forth to carry you home\n  Yo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\n  Uh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\n  Blowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\n  And oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\n  There's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\n  These are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\n  but let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\n  Ridin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\n  My nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\n  No one includin me, should be understimated\n  But don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\n  Cause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\n  Pop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\n  off the block before your carcass drop\n  Can't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\n  Out your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\n  brown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\n  Ain't, barrin none hundred round draw\n  Nothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\n  Takin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\n  Everytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\n  When they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\n  The world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\n  I still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\n  Get up off and give me room, activate, motivate\n  Y'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\n  Block for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\n  Gone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\n  Shoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\n  block me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\n  on the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\n  Lookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\n  Watch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\n  and my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\n  Lookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\n  whatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\n  Now watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\n  Hoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\n  Dope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\n  Blowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\n  I wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\n  Stomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\n  Goodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\n  and my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\n  is bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\n  A-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\n  And the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\n  Nigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS\n"},{"id":14622254,"name":"All A's (Featuring Backbone)","trackName":"All A's (Featuring Backbone)","artistName":"Goodie Mob","albumName":"World Party","duration":326.556735,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\nFakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\nMustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\nPassin by these haters like we got all A's\nSay say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\nNuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\nI'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\nThey was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\nI'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\nMobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\nThey slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\nBut at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\nOkay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\nBut I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\nKeep point four-five calibers of chrome\nI'm, comin forth to carry you home\nYo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\nUh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\nBlowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\nAnd oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\nThere's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\nThese are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\nbut let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\nRidin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\nMy nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\nNo one includin me, should be understimated\nBut don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\nCause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\nPop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\noff the block before your carcass drop\nCan't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\nOut your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\nbrown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\nAin't, barrin none hundred round draw\nNothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\nTakin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\nEverytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\nWhen they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\nThe world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\nI still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\nGet up off and give me room, activate, motivate\nY'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\nBlock for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\nGone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\nShoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\nblock me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\non the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\nLookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\nWatch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\nand my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\nLookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\nwhatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\nNow watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\nHoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\nDope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\nBlowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\nI wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\nStomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\nGoodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\nand my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\nis bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\nA-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\nAnd the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\nNigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: All A's (Featuring Backbone)\n  artist: Goodie Mob\n  album: World Party\n  duration_ms: 326557\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\n  Fakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\n  Mustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\n  Passin by these haters like we got all A's\n  Say say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\n  Nuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\n  I'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\n  They was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\n  I'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\n  Mobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\n  They slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\n  But at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\n  Okay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\n  But I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\n  Keep point four-five calibers of chrome\n  I'm, comin forth to carry you home\n  Yo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\n  Uh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\n  Blowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\n  And oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\n  There's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\n  These are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\n  but let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\n  Ridin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\n  My nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\n  No one includin me, should be understimated\n  But don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\n  Cause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\n  Pop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\n  off the block before your carcass drop\n  Can't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\n  Out your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\n  brown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\n  Ain't, barrin none hundred round draw\n  Nothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\n  Takin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\n  Everytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\n  When they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\n  The world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\n  I still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\n  Get up off and give me room, activate, motivate\n  Y'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\n  Block for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\n  Gone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\n  Shoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\n  block me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\n  on the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\n  Lookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\n  Watch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\n  and my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\n  Lookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\n  whatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\n  Now watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\n  Hoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\n  Dope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\n  Blowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\n  I wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\n  Stomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\n  Goodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\n  and my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\n  is bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\n  A-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\n  And the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\n  Nigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS\n"},{"id":18536574,"name":"All A's (feat. Jamahr \"Backbone\" Williams)","trackName":"All A's (feat. Jamahr \"Backbone\" Williams)","artistName":"Goodie Mob.","albumName":"World Party","duration":326.506667,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\nFakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\nMustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\nPassin by these haters like we got all A's\nSay say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\nNuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\nI'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\nThey was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\nI'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\nMobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\nThey slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\nBut at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\nOkay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\nBut I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\nKeep point four-five calibers of chrome\nI'm, comin forth to carry you home\nYo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\nUh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\nBlowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\nAnd oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\nThere's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\nThese are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\nbut let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\nRidin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\nMy nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\nNo one includin me, should be understimated\nBut don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\nCause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\nPop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\noff the block before your carcass drop\nCan't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\nOut your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\nbrown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\nAin't, barrin none hundred round draw\nNothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\nTakin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\nEverytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\nWhen they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\nThe world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\nI still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\nGet up off and give me room, activate, motivate\nY'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\nBlock for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\nGone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\nShoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\nblock me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\non the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\nLookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\nWatch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\nand my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\nLookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\nwhatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\nNow watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\nHoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\nDope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\nBlowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\nI wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\nStomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\nGoodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\nand my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\nis bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\nA-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\nAnd the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\nNigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: All A's (feat. Jamahr \"Backbone\" Williams)\n  artist: Goodie Mob.\n  album: World Party\n  duration_ms: 326507\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\n  Fakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\n  Mustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\n  Passin by these haters like we got all A's\n  Say say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\n  Nuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\n  I'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\n  They was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\n  I'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\n  Mobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\n  They slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\n  But at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\n  Okay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\n  But I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\n  Keep point four-five calibers of chrome\n  I'm, comin forth to carry you home\n  Yo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\n  Uh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\n  Blowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\n  And oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\n  There's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\n  These are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\n  but let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\n  Ridin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\n  My nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\n  No one includin me, should be understimated\n  But don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\n  Cause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\n  Pop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\n  off the block before your carcass drop\n  Can't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\n  Out your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\n  brown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\n  Ain't, barrin none hundred round draw\n  Nothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\n  Takin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\n  Everytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\n  When they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\n  The world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\n  I still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\n  Get up off and give me room, activate, motivate\n  Y'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\n  Block for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\n  Gone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\n  Shoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\n  block me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\n  on the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\n  Lookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\n  Watch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\n  and my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\n  Lookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\n  whatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\n  Now watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\n  Hoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\n  Dope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\n  Blowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\n  I wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\n  Stomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\n  Goodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\n  and my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\n  is bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\n  A-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\n  And the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\n  Nigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS\n"},{"id":9679566,"name":"All A's","trackName":"All A's","artistName":"Goodie Mob feat. Backbone","albumName":"World Party","duration":326.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\nFakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\nMustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\nPassin by these haters like we got all A's\nSay say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\nNuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\nI'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\nThey was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\nI'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\nMobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\nThey slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\nBut at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\nOkay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\nBut I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\nKeep point four-five calibers of chrome\nI'm, comin forth to carry you home\nYo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\nUh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\nBlowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\nAnd oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\nThere's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\nThese are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\nbut let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\nRidin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\nMy nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\nNo one includin me, should be understimated\nBut don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\nCause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\nPop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\noff the block before your carcass drop\nCan't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\nOut your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\nbrown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\nAin't, barrin none hundred round draw\nNothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\nTakin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\nEverytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\nWhen they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\nThe world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\nI still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\nGet up off and give me room, activate, motivate\nY'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\nBlock for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\nGone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\nShoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\nblock me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\non the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\nLookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\nWatch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\nand my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\nLookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\nwhatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\nNow watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\nHoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\nDope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\nBlowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\nI wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\nStomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\nGoodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\nand my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\nis bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\nA-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\nAnd the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\nNigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: All A's\n  artist: Goodie Mob feat. Backbone\n  album: World Party\n  duration_ms: 326000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I got to feed, the beat, the gat on the seat\n  Fakin ain't these girls fake when they see they face in the paint\n  Mustard and mayonnaise, and we smoke always\n  Passin by these haters like we got all A's\n  Say say say say Crack, what's the word on the street?\n  Nuttin but hard times, workin this concrete\n  I'm gettin dirty looks from niggaz, on the next street over\n  They was in my filthy, fiendin gettin closer\n  I'm in my seventy-nine, flyin\n  Mobbed out so they can't see me when I'm ridin\n  They slow me down, holla like we buddy buddy\n  But at the same time I know these muh'fuckers wanna mug me\n  Okay gunplay at the one-way one day witcha\n  But I'll do years, if I bust these niggaz\n  Keep point four-five calibers of chrome\n  I'm, comin forth to carry you home\n  Yo, well you damn right, dig it they call me Sugar Delight\n  Uh-ohh hoe, Willie cuttin virgin broads tonight\n  Blowin like a boss, that champion chief in cost\n  And oh my dual exhaust, will make your shit get lost\n  There's somethin bout these guns that give these hoes asthma attacks\n  These are actual facts, I ain't been in no actual car-jacks\n  but let me tell you this, I'll burn a nigga ass up to a crisp\n  Ridin with these two glocks, we gon' bounce on off, on the new shocks\n  My nigga don't hate me, cause I ain't hated, but we related\n  No one includin me, should be understimated\n  But don't you dare ride through the SWATS without, at least 30 shots\n  Cause I'm tellin ya, these Southern boys gon' get all they got\n  Pop it in, get to work, brains blow,??\n  off the block before your carcass drop\n  Can't share nothin with the niggeroles, stealin socks\n  Out your cornbread dream too, if you got those, leavin deaf hoes\n  brown, on the outside, pink, in the middle\n  Ain't, barrin none hundred round draw\n  Nothin under seventy-five, and I get slick??\n  Takin no prisoners cuffed, they die fightin for they freedom\n  Everytime son, rhymes too pretty'll get your mascara smeared\n  When they did, my buddy Spanky I bust out in tears\n  The world would be a better place to live, if it was less queers\n  I still see, punk ass bitches. bitches.\n  Get up off and give me room, activate, motivate\n  Y'all from the section where the straight shit, straight up off the top\n  Block for block, yo we got the??, wait for days\n  Gone up off the Purple Haze, when you see me call me Mr. Gipp\n  Shoot em from the hip, everytime I'm in my 84 Sedan Deville\n  block me off and watch me peel, Big Boi grill ridin through the park\n  on the weekend ain't no stoppin keep it dippin that's how we trippin\n  Lookin mean, you too clean behind the glass\n  Watch yo' ass, keep yo' elbows out the windows\n  and my hands upon the wood wheel, money in my socks\n  Lookin out, for the cops, and for the haters got a fifty shot\n  whatever you wanna call it, nigga what? What?\n  Now watch em slide like some finger lickin chicken, bout to start clickin\n  Hoe better know who the true G's are, I'm the star, brand new car\n  Dope ki lyrical cascade height, SWATS type, mic soldier\n  Blowin composer, chief of that doja, told ya when I was older\n  I wanted to live the good life, money over that bull, got that pull\n  Stomach full, posse thick, niggaz wish, at a young age\n  Goodie Mo.B., doin they thang, I, pray, for, change\n  and my players in this game it's insane, how this 'caine\n  is bringin em pain, young'un doin time dyin by this grind\n  A-T-L, fine this just how it's goin down\n  And the sound, watch your mouth in this motherfuckin Dirty South\n  Nigga check it out, dirty SWATS got SPOTS\n"}]