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Studio Gangster (Pooh Man)

"I've seen you on the street" "Where you from?" "From Oakland" "Nah, you're not from Oakland, I know Oakland" Let's take a ride with the boy from the Eastside Where nothing's a crime no roots to a bye-bye Tired of motherfuckers spitting nothing but drama rhymes Flapping his lips, and ain't never squeezed a nine Try to compete with me fool, you ain't competitive Stop claiming my town, before I give your ass a sedative Haymaker and uppercuts, hey nigga you weak as fuck I'm hitting like Tyson, so fool what's up? You and your boys, you pop a whole lot of weak shit Yelling "Pooh-Man is flapping" but he's fucking your bitch Getting ganked by your manager, did for your cash That's what you get with your uneducated ass Pooh's the pistol-toting, dank-smoking, bitch-choking Young player from Oakland I was taught by O.G.'s fool, what you stressing? AK's, Mac 12's fool, Smith & Wessons You got the audacity to false claim where you be R.I.P. to S-P-I-C-E You wanna be down with my town but my town ain't down with ya clown So studio gangster put your motherfucking mic down I'm coming for your ass, nigga, you're outta pocket Squeeze the trigger, eight ball in the corner pocket A lotta stories circulating round town Seems my peers in this business try to put me down He said this, she said that But you know where they talking that fool: behind my back Never had the guts to step up And my fans know that I can take a rhyme and change the flow Somewhat of a realist, cause I stay as real as this And all those other brothers can do is make a wish Huh, so I refuse to kiss they ass I got something better, motherfucker (gunshots) More and more I find myself in the media Or maybe on the screen for New Line Cinema Yeah, your lips are flapping but my bank is still stacking '93 and I ain't out to do nothing but keep taxing Punk-ass bitch, you slimy-ass worm When will you learn you only get what the fuck you earn? I'm from the town of the motherfucking Mack Even my bitch draws a big black gat, huh So all the talking you doing gets you nowhere, player The "Peace to My Nine" bullshit I just couldn't bear Here's my glock, listen to me cock it The trigger is pulled, it's eight ball in the corner pocket I'm getting tired of my name used in a bad way Even though I ain't around, these fools got something to say Claim I'm a thug, I sell drug ficticious Man I'm telling you, these lies be vicious And these same motherfuckers be all in my face '93 I got the pop, and they all want a taste You see I'm out to get richer, in otherwords more cash Pooh be coming in first with these niggas coming in last So I take my nine and my sensor alarm And I straight go crazy and take his fucking head off For being all in my fucking mix You punk motherfucking ass hoe-trusting bitch Yeah your partner pump you up, you throw your chest in the air And then you got the nerves to badmouth a player If I was you I'd shut my motherfucking mouth Before my partner Little E blow your motherfucking head off You want some funk nigga, well you got it It's like eight ball to the corner pocket