Sick Man Lyrics

Now I might just be a sick man

But Everything I do is sick, man

It's Lit fam, god damn put the Mic in my hand

And listen to my Nine mm go Blam!

Fresh dressed like a thousand stacks

Armed to the teeth, don't know how to act

Boom & pound & move a crowd don't have to tell me twice

I body rock like MC Lyte vs. Wesley Snipes

Rap promoter every night you gotta get me right

Cash me the fuck out like an empty pipe

Lemme tell you bout my money, don't play like broken toys

Old School poster boy, face up in the polaroid

Sippin Henny over hail stones in the photograph

With the homie in the jail pose with the soldier rag

Jagged as a brick, pants sagging at the hip

Bass heads nose bleed when they bang it in the whip

Lock it up like Co-D's at the ankle and the wrist

Finesse mics with two fingers, why you strangling the bitch?

Sucka please, it's in my blood and what I breathe

You prolly even find me sleepin in a funky freeze

Now I might just be a sick man

But Everything I do is sick, man

It's Lit fam, god damn put the Mic in my hand

And listen to my Nine mm go Blam!

The Slang Monster, bank robber pushin notes

Freestylin & forgettin shit you wish you coulda wrote

The kid do square biz w/ a lot of crooked folks

My cologne's a cloud of smoke like my pockets fulla dope

Walk the streets like Michael Jackson with the zippers in my jacket

Style so clean like I'm tryin to kick the habit

Beat fiend spit for addicts, let Marley hit the scratches

Until the bridge is over… like Mr. Magic

Dope sick & symptomatic down to my suede Pumas

Beatin drums, speak in tongues, might just be a brain tumor

Terminally ill, walkin emergency for real

You couldn't fix this sickness with a surgery and pills

My brain is tryin to murder me and certainly it will

Somebody tell the Jerk to quit the third degree and chill

Spit it like the ghost of Big L haunts my inkwell

Pour out some kettle one for the Devil's Son & we drink well

Now I might just be a sick man

But Everything I do is sick, man

It's Lit fam, god damn put the Mic in my hand

And listen to my Nine mm go Blam!

The cavalier racketeer cruising through the stratosphere

So high you couldn't hear me without antennae & rabbit ears

Homie's so fly I'm duck hunting with a rake

Crushin like the FatBoys while ya drums are underweight

We just punch ya face w/ the bass like Mista Chuck

Over did it just a touch & no we didn't give a fuck

Cause me and Note Lab don't know the limits of the funk

We keep it knockin like we had Jehova's Witness in the trunk

Trust & believe we tight as buckles & jeans

Doing this since Dre & O'shea said Fuck The police

The Coltrain of cold game, minus 100 degrees

Yeah we two stacks, just a couple of G's

W/ the kinda minds to turn coal shafts to diamond minds

Flossing on these weak ass fools like it's nine to five

My blunt smoke is gun smoke, spit dynamite

King of Style, keep it lit like the pilot light