Bamboozled - Kool Keith, Kutmasta Kurt, Marc Live

Yeah, the diesel truckers, with, Kool Keith

Marc Live, Jacky Jasper

We come international, and rational

I saw the Grammy’s, I wasn’t impressed with that

A lot of stylists overdressed that

Was I wrong?

Who was the best at

Two cases on Stoli’s, eight thousand for this man you owe me

I left the V.I.P.

section lonely

Me, white folks, Don Juan played the back

The women chose me over guess who?

Pretty Toney

Kid I got your lady signed to Sony

Girls tell Bobby I’m the real tenderoni

New York’s best verse carrier

You better scoop her, before I marry her

Award winnder without rims

Tap your dimepiece without spinners

JVC, LL soapbox with the antennas

I get hard on aspirin cups filled with Guinness

The Ernie Onassis, with masters, with Marc and Jack Jasper

Sunday clean gators on the pastor

Go 'head player, youse a wallflower

Scared to talk to her, I’ma ask her

Rep it at the casino, walk in your presence

Miami’s biggest problem

Whack rappers want me out the game like Al Pacino

We pop bottles, washed up models (bamboozled)

Runny makeup, celebrities, uncensored

Paparazzi, Sunset Boulevard

Forty-second street, Las Vegas, South Beach

I seen a lot of rappers turn soft, I turn my TV off (uh)

And thugs got commercials (yea) thugs in commercials (uh)

And everybody’s chick turned gladiator and shit

No pimps, no hustlers, yo where’s your whips

No Maybachs, no Lambos on the field

Towncar, ridin Music Express

And yo' the winner is — effervesence (that's right)

Your rhymes didn’t win, your rhymes didn’t get shit (oh!)

They like the way you move in tight suits (that's right)

And gay-ass 70 boots

You the best example, yo the industry is whack yo

Now you can bet your label and your Phantom on that

See rappers don’t want no parts of men

They zombies, +28 Days+ all over again

Everybody’s scared, runnin again

They bonecrush ya, monkeys in the cage again

Celebrity nigga, broke a MC pimp nigga

Show up on the scene (nigga)

Trackin cream, so obscene

You can’t come clean, fast money I fiend

I know the score, your mother-in-law

My money is more, she’s leavin him poor

I know the game, ask Rick James

I don’t complain and I won’t explain

Go fetch, I draw the sketch

You won’t catch, I got the niche (bitch)

The chips won’t switch, she’s not a bitch

I’ll take the chips, she’s on my dick

They flowin in, steppin on up the money out

Hiccup, bitch shut the fuck up (what)

What is wrong, income’s right

The street’s my wife, the street’s my life, uh