I Work - La the Darkman

I’m the black Stephen King, I write my horrors through a pen

Every song from my album, tell how, what and when

I live like an orphan, cuz I didn’t have much

Kill a nigga, put some crack, in a pistol in my clutch

I’m still here today, it’s the American way

Ask Jed and George Bush, see what they say

How they took the presidency, the barrel of a gun

How we took Iraqi oil, with the same one

Analyze that, La the Darkman, play to win

Recently, I shot a nigga that I called a friend

Cuz he was foe, tried to steal some of my blow

Oh well, snakes in the grass, I chopped the head off they ass

Need an instant replay, I make it happen so fast

Til then, I’m getting all this money, fucking all these bunnies

Laugh a little bit, but ain’t a damn thing funny

You dig?

I got kids, and brothers to feed

Not to mention, my life, my bitches and what I need

Three story condos, carbon truck, combos

Bang hammers at niggas like Africans on congos

That’s how my song goes, drugs, money and murder

Check and see if you can handle it, 'fore you take it further, it’s La

I work, I’m real, I shoot, I kill

Pops left, moms had a habit, aunt raised me

Kicked me out of high school, teacher said I was crazy

Then I caught a CCW, didn’t amaze me

Then I caught a tenth and one, they tried to lay me

All through the trial, proves I’m natu-ral

Had lawyer money then, same as I do now

Youngster, it’s all about guns and butter

My first large sum of cash, I took care my mother

Bout her a crib, in the 'burbs, got her out of the gutter

Imagine my stress, cursed at birth, trynna get blessed

Slip infederal indictments, seems to be my hardest test

I’m the best, when it comes to flipping ten to twenty

Twenty to forty, forty to eighty, my shit is gravy

Double my condoms, keep my bitch from having babies

Ain’t that crazy, hell nah, I see the big picture

Baby momma child support, keep a nigga from getting richer

I’m slicker than the average, want something, I grab it

Get money like junkies smoking crack, it’s a habit

Move O’s through traffic, ball like Tim Duncan

Fundimental whips, no chrome, rims or nothing

Everything’s true, getting money up at the scoop

With bitches that party by sniffing a line or two

This ain’t rap, this what I do, like Japanese and kung fu

You understand, yeah?