Since When - CunninLynguists

Take you through church in a verse til you view fact

Holy ghost, from the lowly coast, spit humility

Facin critics cold fronts, blockin our humidity

(We own rap) fo sho as Cognac’ll twist yo dome back

Our tracks?

See, they be nappy (but you can’t comb that)

Call it el natural sound of soul

You ain’t seen these darts or how fast they’ve flown

(From, ‘tween these parts and the ones ‘nere known

My slang bang with a twang and hang on earlobes

You hear Natti, hot as Caddies with no steering column on ‘em)

With enough lines to dry all the clothes that you own

(Since when did the south) get pinned in a drought?

(Not never been clever since big pens been about

Reachin whateva levels that’ll suspend any doubt

That we as bad as yo kids when this mics to our mouth)

I hear 'em talkin 'bout Southern folks can’t rhyme

Some of y’all must be out your God damned mind

Yeah, it’s about that time, we got that shine

Cause niggas been about them lines

Since when?

E’ry since a «Pocket Full of Stones»

Ridin dirty in a Chevy sittin heavy on chrome

Ever since Goodie Mo' had Food for Soul

And them dirty red dawgs done hit the do'

(The Mason-Dixon Line, been across ya mind like night-sticks

Rain down on the game and fuck it up like white kicks

I might switch, south-paw), knuckle to jaw

(If another broke nigga spit about spendin it all

I spit the gems that you splurge to put around neck

So save that to pay back all your loans and debts)

A Maybach and a plaque, is that all you get?

Shhhit

(We struggle to juggle talent with a helluva sales pitch)

Standin on southern dirt that helped America get rich

Ye' ain’t gotta struggle with a shovel to dig this

Cold as no power, after hours in the winter months

Hot though (crock-pot flow)

So here dinner comes

Walk them shell toes down underground railroads

(Niggas fresh outta jail clothes, spittin like hell’s close)

And these words ain’t slurred, maybe how you listen’s blurred

You ain’t feelin sickness served?

muhfucka kiss a curb

I hear 'em talkin 'bout Southern folks can’t rhyme

Some of y’all must be out your God damned mind

Yeah, it’s about that time, we got that shine

Cause niggas been about them lines

Since when?

E’ry since a «Pocket Full of Stones»

Ridin dirty in a Chevy sittin heavy on chrome

Ever since Goodie Mo' had Food for Soul

And them dirty red dawgs done hit the do'