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Yung Joc » Don't Play Wit It
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	(Yung Joc:) What it is man (sup?) Yung Joc, Block Entertainment Yeah, you wan' know somethin? (What'chu wanna know nigga?) I'ma take this motherfuckin time to let y'all niggaz know I'm tired of playin games.. I'm tired of playin wit'chu man (Preach on) Y'all niggaz comin up short on your money Your re-up shit ain't right (nope, nope) Your grams off nigga, get that shit right (Tell 'em shawty) Let me talk to y'all This ain't make believe so why the fuck is you playin You better listen close to what the fuck I'm sayin Cause really all it takes is a couple grand Like AT&T I reach out and I touch a man Or I can let it go cause it ain't nuttin man But naw it's the principle so fuck what you sayin E'ry dollar I want it, e'ry dime I need that So when it's time to break bread gimme no feedback (shhh) Cause you don't want to piss me off And I get to poppin like we poppin Cristal See I cain't help it, that's just how we get down Let off a couple rounds, turn your smile to a frown Yeahhh I know, you think I'm bluffin 'Til I kick the do' and the goons they rush in Lay down on the flo' where you keep the coke in You say "I don't know" then your blood start gushin (Chorus x2: Yung Joc) I done told your ass once (once) told your ass twice (twice) Fuckin with my paper, you're fuckin wit'cha life (wit'cha life) Don't play with it (blam) don't play with it (blam) Don't play with it (blam) nigga don't play with it (blam) (Big Gee:) Here he come once again Mr. Murder Man Smokin on the purple bad, pistol in my other hand Fuckin with my rubberbands get your ass murdered fast Chop you up and chop ya, then stuff ya in a duffel bag Ride wit'cha in the trunk 'til ya smellin bad Get your daughter after class, ride by snatch her ass I know a pussy nigga owe me a couple stack Pop him like he never had, but the nigga holdin back (nah) I ain't trippin now I'm lettin 'em pass, got that ass So I'm in the good, nigga smokin like a thermostat Flashin hella stacks, pie nigga Pontiac Actin for these hoes with my money, what kinda shit is that? I ain't feelin that, pay me for my fuckin pack E'ry dime off e'ry zone, don't gimme that (nah) See it time for the chrome, go on pull it out Sad Sunday service for the sucker in the parking lot (Chorus) (Yung Joc:) Better know the repercussions fuckin with my dividends Yeah I got a hitman for the hitmen Leave your baby momma numb and I touch many fans If ye ain't tryin to see it I suggest you start prayin All I'm sayin; don't try to play me like I'm soft Treat you like mosquitoes when I skeet you with that Off That Joc crawl blood, nigga call me Red Cross Leave your wig leakin like you spilled spaghetti sauce (repeat x2) Fuckin with my paper - ye ain't right I'ma send them gators - in the middle of the night Let 'em split your tater - in front your wife No one can save ya - put out your lights (Chorus) (voice speaking over Chorus to end:) C'mon man That ain't how you do the shit bruh Out'chea playin with a nigga money and shit That ain't the shit to be fuckin with It's hard out'chea in these streets nigga Fuckin people fuckin wit'cha Niggaz rattin and shit That ain't what's up dawg It's the big dawg Diesel Yung Joc in the building, ya heard me?
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