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The Game
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Hard Times (feat. Lil Wayne)
The Game feat. Lil Wayne
They don't seem to want me but they won't admit
I think I'm some kind of creature that they are
Having fear of Hard times
Theres no love to be found
I'm feeling like a black democrat
Barack Obama, the only nigga that can catch Osama
Spray lamas, get good head and fuck fly bitches with no covenant
Only the kitchen oven in and rules to the government
Ask the republicans how crack cocaine get smuggled in?
Watch them throw they hands up and say it wasn't them
As for rap, this is my lyrical asthma attack
It's all I know, the guns, the cash, the dro
Fidel Castro on my own right, Capone like
Mafioso, Ben Franky on the low pro
Drop top Bentley, chromed out semi
Two grand in popular demand like the first pennies
My Audemars Piguet wrist say it's time to dethrone Jay quick
Tell 'em other niggas to take six
Coupe a buck fifty, what's coming out the speakers?
Got every video bitch scared to fuck with me
Having hard times
There's no love to be found
Having hard times
There no love to be found
Shit gangster to the core
Ain't no rap flame paint your kitchen floor
What you, you can't ignore
Things you endure went up against the board
All I heard was easy don't fill me no more
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I hear your bullshit, I play matador
I'm outta category I ain't there with you
I got a positive vibe, but I ain't scared of ya'll
Hit the kid nigga dip, never that at all
Then red attack the wall, that black-ack-ack-ack-ack
I got a girl so fine her name Perignon
She know how to get them things in her carry on
I blow outta town Grants when I'm outta town
Uptown in the building how that sounds
Cause killas don't get heard about
They get whispered about and you get murdered out, boy
You got it on your mind look daddy say something
All that play buckin' get your face buttoned up
And now when you smirk you look like Jay Z's shirt
Steppin' on the turf
Give 'em hard dick and tampons
A shot of Patron and Don
The ones trained get ran on, my crew hard
Louis V sweaters on the boulevard
Pull niggas cars throw up signs and bang Nas
They call me J.R. I tell 'em come holla
I tell my poppa put away your dollars, your son got choppers
And if you got enemy's, your son got enemies, that uptown energy
Niggas ain't gon' never be on my level
Get a shovel, dig a hole
Bitch and poly with he devil you or I, quiet hustler
I'm a 80's baby for real born in '79 and bread to kill
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