U-god - Fame Lyrics
feat. Styles PYou know it’s all about fameFameYou know it’s all about fameI’m a winner in my bookMade cuisine, in the kitchen, the fly cookIn the air like a rim in a skyhookDeaf jock, my left hookThis is easy workIt’s the mic mechanicsSee the greasy shirtThis is easy perksFollow two steps dot on the chopperMy ***** know GQManolo boots keep cursin’ at the hustlersHow you gonna get loo?You’re cursing at the coarsenessNo sales, you better have my cashThe feds don’t grab me, I got lots of plansI need balls, the all star cashIn the leadin roll, call it cruise controlEvery day is shakable, everything is payableNo tings in my armor, I’m feeling unbreakableSwimming through the shark tankI’m top rank for theFameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameI’m an all, I draw inkResemble war tank, the grass chopperSpilling up more drinkWhat would I do, I think of ways to smash’emEyes on me, I throw the anthemRaise that green lantern, in the green fathom,Joke of the town, don’t he love handsomeYour little league, you only made your dadTo take overI’m passing European checksBrush you teethI’m your early morning toothacheStop the ropes, this is how I...Cotton candy, hot sip and brandyPass me my suitcase, these skinny fans fruitcakeListen to the gram when it’s mixed with cramI’m dosing on my rambleYou stoking on my timeFrom the fowl line back to the huddleRight tracks on the bullet trainTo the shuttleFameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameRaised by wolves like the book back of ArioDid a lot of dirt but never would say sorry thoughWild like the lamb boys down in El BarrioCrimp on the jokes, then you’d better do your cardioRun to ‘em and run from ‘emHe’s a killer so you can’t take his gun from himHe bad coat so his hands feel nothing from himHe’s a cold hearted bastard, better dumb dumb himProbably a 45, my job is making sureIf they violate the big mandalo or shorty rideOut in there stretching in the ambulanceWe ain’t left the ham gramBut niggers moving grams on the hand to handIf I’m talking snow what’s the avalanche?I ain’t thinking of rap but catch me in a battle stampYeah it’s the ghost mother*****erGuns rappers and blunts yeah smokeMother*****ersThink Imma rope rangeThe killer here red bonePut that on my hash stoneYou see the jem stoneCall it in the end zoneHeadphones, Dr. Dre, your new sensationYeah I got a lot to sayYou’d better speakSo misunderstoodLet her speakThe new voice in the hood, never had to hideAlways had the heart keep it simple and sharpAnd I land on the sharks for theFameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fameFor the fame
