Time to Check My Fetty - Mr.serv On, Master P

Huh, it’s like this here player, ain’t no rules in the ghetto

It ain’t really 'bout the dollar value, it’s 'bout the principle

A life ain’t worth nothing, any nigga come shizz out on mine

You hear what I’m saying?

I’m gonna handle that

I’m gonna show these motherfuckers, I ain’t playing

That’s the American way, I mean I’m kicking up crack houses

Knocking motherfucking doors in, 'cause I gotta get mine

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

Went half on a key with my partner Mr. Serv On

Eighteen oz’s add up, nigga that’s half home

Open up shop on six and Berone street

The fiends walking around, every nigga out there know me

Hear them on the beeper, nigga, it’s on

I done sold sixteen, I’m on my way home

Two came up short, somebody must be smoking

P grabbed that age K, nigga we ain’t joking

Bullets got no dis name, a pound and back of that good cain

1997, the dope game

Some call me Frank Nitty 'cause I ain’t taking no shorts

I’m aiming that beam at your motherfucking heart

Let the windows down on my green Eddie Bauer

A 187 for this crystal white powder

So Serv On, cut those lights off and creep

That’s when we put them cockroaches to sleep

Cruise up drive to errata to the 3rd ward

Professional execution, fuck a murder charge

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

I’m paranoid, I can’t sleep, I think my phone tapped

Rest in peace little Jacob in the calliope got kidnapped

Now I’m tripping on shit, I ain’t slipping on shit

We carry gats and shit, bulletproof vests in case niggas talking shit

Wanna creep up on us killers, drug dealers

Ghetto millionaire where niggas and bitches feel us

Fake niggas step back, jackers meet my chrome gat

They kill my cousin fulling ghosts his never come back

It’s an eye for an eye in this dope game

Niggas are losing their life living that heroin and cocaine

I trust nobody but my nickel plated Nino

Have you seen her, fuck with my greens nigga you going meet her

Meet your maker, one way ticket to Jamaica

Now your bitch with me, and I’m a fuck her, then break her

Ain’t no rules in this dope game

But don’t get high on your own supplies, man

But if you fuck with soldiers you coo coo for cocoa puffs

Cause niggas in my hood losing their life for furl and cooked rocks

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

Time to get your fetty, get your paper

Come short with the cream we going take you

Hit the block in the purple caddy, got you bitches calling me daddy

Got some mountains in the trunk, nigga they going faster

So what the fuck you want?

Slanging them green birds and lemon drops

Pop a pound of that Cali green serving fiends

Got 'em fat like fifties, which one of you niggas trying to short me

Big Mo take me to the calliope, so I can see Slim

Hit the desert eagle and pay these bitches like a candy painted regale

Now I’m ready to set shop like Buggsy Seagel

On the parkway you bitches gonna die my way

Call my nigga Cujo, it’s going down, check my fetty nigga