One of my ALL TIME favorites…. This, in my opinion, proves Game’s lyrical skills….
Download The Game – Feelin’ It f. Yung Rob
Lyrics down below….
Most of these rap niggas be fakin’,
I’m talking the throne chasers.
I diss em on any basis,
Throw Patron shots to my face and
Stay blooded like Jamaicans
At Marley’s puffing the finest jeeba,
Fucking the finest divas,
If I haven’t, I’d like to meet ya.
Show you how I light the streets up.
Kill niggas that never speak up.
You my fans, sit in the stands
And watch me rip these beats up.
Like a legend, feel my presence like the dead ones.
If I die, my only wish is my face on some Air 1’s.
My son’s girl, my baby mama’s, they drive Sixes.
That’s for my bitches,
There’s other rappers out there that’s trickin’.
My only mission was to sell a couple records,
Buy a Bentley and drive wreckless,
A big medallion on my necklace.
I’ve seen Kane and Rakim do it,
So much respect kid.
Hip Hop is dead because you new niggas don’t get the message.
I use to call names out,
You niggas don’t deserve it, so lame out,
Die from these bullets out of Game’s mouth.
My flow polished,
I studied the legends.
Hip Hop scholar, gettin’ knowledge,
You got some work, than holler.
I’m on the block pitchin.
Most of us got riches,
Not trippin’, work hydraulics
And fuck the hot bitches.
Youngins don’t stop wishin,
If you got a block then flip it.
Just because I’m blood,
Don’t mean my niggas should stop crippin’.
We from the ghetto,
We came up without a pot to piss in.
We gettin’ money, stayin’ blooded,
Cause the clock is ticking.
You got a rock then pitch it.
You got a glock then lift it.
Them G-Unot t-shirts
Make them niggas stop snitchin’.
Forever ballin, I’m Jim Jones,
With rims on
That blue Aston Martin,
Interior like my skin tone.
Most of these rappers want me dead…
Shit I’ve been gone.
2 classic, move rappin’.
My jewels black as,
The first 8 letters in everything I stand for,
Colder than the New York block,
Shut the damn door.
Niggas callin’ me back for an Encore,
Like I’m Eminem.
I disappear niggas like spinna-rims.
Who the fuck want war
Me to set the corner store,
Call it the hot spot,
Where gangbangers throw hot rocks.
The boys comin’,
So what they pop cops.
Push them high drops out with them shirts on
And say we got rocks.
High-school drop out,
There to air the block out.
Stack paper like the OG’s do.
We only chirp on Nextels,
Don’t talk on the Motorolas.
Gotta feel that, so kick back.
Soak up what I’m sayin’,
Picture me Parlayin.
I’m flippin’ bricks
While you eatin’ pussy,
You chicken shit.
I fuck bitches on they time,
I chow with they dime
Gettin’ head under tables,
Everybody stay calm.