G.M.C. - Viktor Vaughn

Party people know the name;

Vik' with a «K»

If it’s all the same, if it ain’t don’t bother

Told the little monster, «No I ain’t yo' father

It’s Uncle Viktor, shut the lights—I'm gettin' dizzy

And close the door—can't you see ya momma busy?»

What a scoundrel!

Gassed up the town fool to go rob the crown jewel

He’s like a lego megalomaniac

Who’s into electronic and techno, a real brainiac

Smack-dab in the hip hop gold rush

V, rather the old stuff

Preferably the Cold Crush

It gets deeper than Deepak Chopra

Except he keep a stack and some cheap-ass vodka

Kneecap poppa, only when he miss the chewy center

At least he always hits who he meant ta

Remember he got a short fuse and bad temper

And a plan to claim emperor by December

Member of the most player-hated race

Who made this invaded place and stated with a straight face

«If I cut her off I might miss her

But one of these days—right in the kisser!»

She probably get mad at me, I bet ya

It gets her nowhere like flattery

She said, «Where were you last Saturday?

And don’t lie—we got your fingerprints off the battery»

Don’t make me have to bling you

Or see you in the street and doubleteam you with the emu

He told her, «When the gem paper tear off

It’ll probably tear her ear off before y’all even square off»

No good good-for-nothin

Kill her high for no frill like 'Good Will Huntin'

He feels out of place like Bizarro

Fiesty chick, comes all out her face like Charo

It’s Vaughn, he’s back on

And you know he don’t care like Jimmy Crack Corn

Wax off, wax on

Tried to raise taxes on cracks and black porn

Another year passes

Gone are the days when he used to wear glasses

Now he wear contacts, unfrozen caveman look over the contracts

These crews is too soft

He came to tear the roof off to get paid to goof off

They don’t really wanna battle

All they gon' do is get mad and go tattle

Tell 'em a retard said it

He ripped up the WE CARD sign and jetted

You gotta give us three card credit

Even though at times he can be hard-headed

Yeah, the main thing;

C.R.E.A.M.

by all means, and harebrained schemes

The lord’s performance was flawless

He rocked with a crown and a Bobby Brown cordless

The broad he was with was gorgeous

The only flaw he saw was she cause a nigga more stress

Not trying to diss her

But I used to know this sister that could put a whole fist in her

Hell, I made it, Momma

Grammy for the world’s most celebrated rhymer

Dead the drama, scama, four Gs of pizzy from Bahama

V., the lead brown man

And never count your chickens before you read SoundScan

What about Mom and Pops?

They might as well cooperate and wait till the bomb drop

Get more cabbage, often time he wonder how they get so savage

V.—not your average, often time he wonder how they got so savage