Crewed Up Lyrics - Strictly Leakage - Atmosphere

Stage One: 

They call me bad lieutenant when my eyes are squinted 

Child of the seventies and the eighties was in it 

Lost the first homeboy in the 9-0 and liable 

To get the gun bucking at 5-0, we tribal 

I'm from a place where the niggas is jelly 

And pretend to be your friend and put one your belly 

And you can keep on yelling, the cops won't come 

You want beef, we got burgers and then some 

We from the era when we learned on our own 

Running wild in the streets with both parents at home 

Kind of hard to find a young un alone - caused we was crewed up 

Tagging on the walls, turf wars and getting chewed up 

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St. Paul Slim: 

Now I don't know about y'all, but I'm 'bout to make a small fortune 

By taking small things and blowing 'em out of proportion 

Using sarcasm as my second language 

Look mom, I'm famous, I mean I'm flagrant 

You say you write your best rhymes when you high? 

I say I write my best rhymes cause I'm fly 

This is why I'm cold on Minnesota nights 

If you want my CD, I will give you special price 

He he he, take Trummond's advice 

St. Paul Slim the best, homie, none of it's hype 

So please lil' asshole, keep your mouth closed 

'Fore your momma be like "Look at my son, he out cold!" 

Photos 

Muja Messiah: 

You could tell I'm focused by the look in my eye 

You could see I'm dirty by how clean my kicks is 

You know, I tell the truth, I got no reason to lie 

Hey, like I tell my chicks "You ain't got a lotta kick it" 

All I'm trying to do is get a piece of the pie 

And turn these bricks into a legit business 

Now run along and go home to your wives 

And leave me and Slug here to play with these bitches 

You know I spit the sickest sickness since syphilis 

Mixed with malaria, fuck it, the more the merrier 

B-Boy, D-Boy, yep I'm in your area 

Muja Messiah, uh huh, hello America 

Yo, yo, y'all wack, yo, what the fuck is new? 

I'm back with Atmos and the crew 

To do this you need style, I thought you knew 

It's not a diss, yo, it's just my point of view 

Maybe if I turn sideways, y'all niggas will 

Throw lyrics my way instead of the highway 

Now getting ran over by cars and Land Rovers 

We starred, you sub par, maybe send your man over 

Pardon, you going step to this 

Spit phat, not anorexic shit 

Come stacked, boy, it ain't no need to go there 

I knock rappers out, y'all scratch and pull hair 

Brother Ali: 

I hustle hard for the love of god 

My life has been the biggest struggle from the bloody start 

I knuckle up and throw the hands, I'm a thug at heart 

So when the shit hit the fan, I don't come apart 

I breathe and shrug it off 

Atmosphere - the Big Brother's big brothers 

Catch is here to turn king to wrist cutters 

Just trust it ain't no regular shit 

That's a polite asshole and a sensitive pimp 

You would think it was a party, not a Cadillac 

Church mosque, have a knack 

Dr. Dre Training Day rappers don't know how to act 

Remove 'em all from my sight, like a cataract 

Poof! It's a magic act 

Toki Wright: 

Walk over beats like DMC, three stripes 

Thievery, three strikes, 

Visa need three swipes 

DVDs, jeans, clean cuts, brush dandruff 

Mobile phones, student loan, courted blown pampers 

Chilling at the party in my B-Boy stance 

And they looking at me funny, why, cause they can't dance 

So I'm cutting up and strutting up, I'm buttercup but just enough 

To lean on top of this metropolis with binoculars 

Walk like a pimp, think like a Macintosh 

Battle scars, off to try to figure out your avatar 

Leave the cameras on, told your partner that he can't perform 

Brought a torch to burn the building, he think I'ma hand it to him 

Yeah, yeah, I solemnly swear 

To fight the good fight as long as I'm here 

But sometimes the good fight don't seem fair 

Cause all the best soldiers we had ain't here 

They gone now, we all on our own now 

And most of those left ain't got no style 

You give 'em a inch they try to take a whole mile 

Too overconfident to keep a low profile 

Pump your brakes, stay in your lane 

A bunch of fakes chasing fame 

I'll punch your face and take your chains 

Sit your five dollar ass down before I make change 

Break these chips down, count your business 

Ain't nothing free, it's a James Brown Christmas 

So god bless the underground now and give it 

To the sound of the drums, won't none of us outlive it 

I treat hip hop like a sport 

Stay on my game, put my time on the court 

While you complain and get high some more 

Might explain why your team can't find support 

Now catch me in the back with a whiskey 

Chatting up a missy, like I'm attractive and witty 

I have to dip to do my raps and get busy 

Why don't you come see me when I'm back in your city?