Lyrics:

Funky fresh on the muthafuckin microphone Bitch And it don't stop To the beat, baby Oakland, California is in the house Bitch [ VERSE 1 ] I tell you, nobody does it better than Too $hort I got so many raps, I know you can't have more Cause I grew up on the mic, I spent my whole life Writin raps, late at night And I never would make no fake LP's Sucker MC's don't make no g's They make weak, weak raps, and need to quit 22 songs, and only 3 on hit Frontin on me like you want some Better sell a million records, go platinum Cause I wouldn't waste my time on a one-rap rapper You wanna get with me, you gotta climb that ladder But you ain't nothin but a joke Rappers make money, tell me why are you broke? We get paid like a muthafucka, and we get A brand-new house full of brand-new shit A brand-new car in my brand-new driveway I always keep the top down on the highway Too $hort, baby, known everywhere Had a life-long dream to be a player Way too cold at a younger age It was everyday, 'just make that pay' 12 years later, still in the game And you never talk down on a player's name Cause I'm (Too $hort, Too $hort) [ VERSE 2 ] You see, I'm fresh like always with funky beats I say what's up to the brothers on 10th Street It's goin down in the Oakland town Home of the infamous Too $hort sound So keep your jealous-ass thoughts in your diary And if you're lookin for a leader, you can hire me And if your so-called boss don't pay The only thing you need to say Is