[{"id":23462437,"name":"American Hustle","trackName":"American Hustle","artistName":"Ransom","albumName":"Directors Cut Scene 3","duration":239.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"\"Be my victim!\"\nMan, listen, shit\nI did all that shit ‘cause I had to, man\nNot ‘cause I wanted to\nWe're all living to die, right?\nI wasn't raised by IG, man\nI was raised by the OG's know I'm saying\nWhoever counted us the fuck out\nYou motherfuckers wasn't good at math\nYou heard? It's a fact\nListen\nI'm more than a hustler's motto\nAnd tough bravado, reloading\nBusting hollows when I was stuffing bottles\nI looked up to Pablo fuck the lotto\nI would trust and follow Cus D'Amato\nTouching mics like the Russian\nDrago rushed Apollo, Tough to swallow\nFucking models, soon as I would touch Milano\nFusilli and crushed tomatoes, zucchini\nAnd plus Moscato, Couple bottles\nPuff habanos by a plush Picasso\nBut what the fuck do I know\nYou sell high then you buy low\nYou're Walter White or Gustavo\nWas forced to fight on them potholеs\nTortured sight of a snot nosed\nCost your life if thе block knows\nMind of a crafty fiend, she tossed\nThe pipe when that cop froze, Yeah\nYou ignore the price and get shot close\nSlaughter mics with them pot flows\nBroken loner, hustler with the coke aroma\nNo diploma, robbed a corner store\nAlmost smoked the owner load the chrome up\nMotorola holders cuttin' blow with soda\nKnow the stoners, back against the wall\nDisplay the coldest shoulders\nSold your soul for little dough\nI guess the load too much to hold up\nHard-headed, when we touched the stove\nThe fire didn't scold us\nOld close friends taught me to have no trust\nMade 14K off the powder, that shit gold dust\nShattered dreams to nightmare that\nUncle Sam sold us\nSo I chose the road of dope\nOn digi scales and hold ups\nStupid niggas dip off on the plug too much\nLust for cash got shot in the mask ‘cause he\nRan with the duffle bag\nWould've got in less trouble if I\nCould get in touch with dad\nIronic how I dead every beat that I touch\nI'm bad leather jacket with the buckle, shit\nYou motherfuckers used to be wavy\nBut now you're stuck on a sunken ship\nDrunken fish on a dish\nDisplay murder type mastery on a diss\nCan't fuck with this\nI'd rather get the funds from\nThe cutties that's fully functioning\nDon't deal with fried fiends\nOnly hundreds if you come for things\nSon, son, you're just an\nUnderling, when I'm done, My son a king\nIt's true, some stand tall and some'll sink\nKnow who is who\nThe haters always gonna love\nYou at your funeral that's fuel for the fire\nThat's burning beautiful\nPermanent residue under my cuticles\nThe corner was my office\nI'm foreigner to a cubicle nigga\nWhat if I told y'all\nI was contemplating conformation?\nYeah, and I actually just wanted\nPeople to accept it\nCould it be that everybody loves me except me\nAnd I don't even want to accept me?\nBut even the best me couldn't impress me\nSee, I'm hard on myself\nBut how could you not see God in yourself?\nToo busy building up walls, guarding yourself\nThose scars that you felt thinking\nThinking maybe your father could help\nMy childhood was foster parents who\nWasn't forced to parent\nTrying to find loopholes in group homes\nNah, lil' man, look, you're too grown\nLil' nigga, stand on your two own\nYou was born for this\nYou asked your brother, Born, for this\nNigga, you was brought in here to show all\nThese brothers that was brought to tears\nWho fought for years\nThese devils ain't got to be\nYour source of fear\nYeah, I'm a flawed nigga\nBut I ain't afraid though\nLet me show you the way, bro","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: American Hustle\n  artist: Ransom\n  album: Directors Cut Scene 3\n  duration_ms: 239000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  \"Be my victim!\"\n  Man, listen, shit\n  I did all that shit ‘cause I had to, man\n  Not ‘cause I wanted to\n  We're all living to die, right?\n  I wasn't raised by IG, man\n  I was raised by the OG's know I'm saying\n  Whoever counted us the fuck out\n  You motherfuckers wasn't good at math\n  You heard? It's a fact\n  Listen\n  I'm more than a hustler's motto\n  And tough bravado, reloading\n  Busting hollows when I was stuffing bottles\n  I looked up to Pablo fuck the lotto\n  I would trust and follow Cus D'Amato\n  Touching mics like the Russian\n  Drago rushed Apollo, Tough to swallow\n  Fucking models, soon as I would touch Milano\n  Fusilli and crushed tomatoes, zucchini\n  And plus Moscato, Couple bottles\n  Puff habanos by a plush Picasso\n  But what the fuck do I know\n  You sell high then you buy low\n  You're Walter White or Gustavo\n  Was forced to fight on them potholеs\n  Tortured sight of a snot nosed\n  Cost your life if thе block knows\n  Mind of a crafty fiend, she tossed\n  The pipe when that cop froze, Yeah\n  You ignore the price and get shot close\n  Slaughter mics with them pot flows\n  Broken loner, hustler with the coke aroma\n  No diploma, robbed a corner store\n  Almost smoked the owner load the chrome up\n  Motorola holders cuttin' blow with soda\n  Know the stoners, back against the wall\n  Display the coldest shoulders\n  Sold your soul for little dough\n  I guess the load too much to hold up\n  Hard-headed, when we touched the stove\n  The fire didn't scold us\n  Old close friends taught me to have no trust\n  Made 14K off the powder, that shit gold dust\n  Shattered dreams to nightmare that\n  Uncle Sam sold us\n  So I chose the road of dope\n  On digi scales and hold ups\n  Stupid niggas dip off on the plug too much\n  Lust for cash got shot in the mask ‘cause he\n  Ran with the duffle bag\n  Would've got in less trouble if I\n  Could get in touch with dad\n  Ironic how I dead every beat that I touch\n  I'm bad leather jacket with the buckle, shit\n  You motherfuckers used to be wavy\n  But now you're stuck on a sunken ship\n  Drunken fish on a dish\n  Display murder type mastery on a diss\n  Can't fuck with this\n  I'd rather get the funds from\n  The cutties that's fully functioning\n  Don't deal with fried fiends\n  Only hundreds if you come for things\n  Son, son, you're just an\n  Underling, when I'm done, My son a king\n  It's true, some stand tall and some'll sink\n  Know who is who\n  The haters always gonna love\n  You at your funeral that's fuel for the fire\n  That's burning beautiful\n  Permanent residue under my cuticles\n  The corner was my office\n  I'm foreigner to a cubicle nigga\n  What if I told y'all\n  I was contemplating conformation?\n  Yeah, and I actually just wanted\n  People to accept it\n  Could it be that everybody loves me except me\n  And I don't even want to accept me?\n  But even the best me couldn't impress me\n  See, I'm hard on myself\n  But how could you not see God in yourself?\n  Too busy building up walls, guarding yourself\n  Those scars that you felt thinking\n  Thinking maybe your father could help\n  My childhood was foster parents who\n  Wasn't forced to parent\n  Trying to find loopholes in group homes\n  Nah, lil' man, look, you're too grown\n  Lil' nigga, stand on your two own\n  You was born for this\n  You asked your brother, Born, for this\n  Nigga, you was brought in here to show all\n  These brothers that was brought to tears\n  Who fought for years\n  These devils ain't got to be\n  Your source of fear\n  Yeah, I'm a flawed nigga\n  But I ain't afraid though\n  Let me show you the way, bro\n"}]