Guns and Butter

[Intro: C-Rayz Walz] The loca. Caliente. Hey, god. (Rich, rich). R'Thentic. C-Rayz. Guns and butter! [Verse 1: C-Rayz Walz] Go back upstairs. Eat your mac cheese and fish sticks You not 50—you gon' die tryna "Get Rich" I spit sick—my lungs' disease is from Asia My LP's a "Funcrusher" too—my Fantasia's Roy Jones, knock opponents out and ball too I'm a MC! (Yo!) What the fuck they call you?!? Pussy. My grammar's truth, y'all You wanna be a player just to dive for loose balls Dickhead, come out your face, say somethin' slick My lines get all up in your ass like your uncle's dick That chick said you're a small piece of wood Stuck in her fingertip—(Huh?)—little prick! You ain't even on my son's level—he just a little sick This ain't really nuttin', devil—it's just a little bit Illegitimate trip through my scenic path If I really spit, the kids would hate English class Do the math—my science will blow up your lab Slow up your staff. I laugh at your arts and crafts You ass, smelly socks and jocks—gym trash Drag back those who study honies with [drab bags?] Son you, have your moms yellin', "Hey, they bagged dad" Come through, bomb you like schools in Iraq Dumb dude. Fact: you fiction. Stop you spittin' Raps collapse your ear where wax'll stack. Listen Drum tap, young cat, old vision, soul glisten Gun clap, one-track mind, rhyme, whole-rhythm creatin' Instead of waitin', refrain from thought patterns Of your dame givin' me crazy brains like horseradish [Hook: Natural K.A.W.S. and C-Rayz Walz] Get those props, follow my light Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice We in the year with a token ending, swollen sentence Off the chain like a stolen pendant Get those props, follow my light Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice In the gutter where suckers'll cut ya, mothers'll hug ya It all comes down to guns and butter [Verse 2: C-Rayz Walz] I already seen a mill'/Amil, but you ain't even heard me yet She moves well without the Roc like the Jersey Nets You can't get in the game, your position is lame Stay on the bench—enjoy the wood, you Marc Twain character I'm holdin' back! So I won't melt the polar caps So good off the top, my hairline's growin' back I make sense/cents now. I'll make dollars later Holla, hater. Catch a scratch from the Cut Creator These is Reebok lines—they supposed to be pumped And get your smoke for free like promotional blunts Your style standard. My style is simply candid I don't jerk off no more—I came empty-handed Honeydip said, "You spit like you sprayin' a clip" And wipe my mouth off with tissue—I be sayin' some shit So you can stack cracks, clap gats, or rap We where the wild things are and it's a fact I max Subtract the whack. Now divide the stacks Multiplied by the feel of the real and I'm back And my DAT contains the masters, so I maintain disaster Polly with NASA, master tracks Anything less than that? I'm bridgin' the gap Like African tribes, I got pussy sewed up—it's a wrap But if it's that deep, dap me—clap me too I fear none of you characters, like Scrappy Doo "C'mon, put 'em up!" Make the rumors greater My name's fate—we gon' meet up, sooner or later Give you fools Juelz like a Santana verse And wreck the beat 'til your bandana burst [Hook: Natural K.A.W.S. and C-Rayz Walz] Get those props, follow my light Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice We in the year with a token ending, swollen sentence Off the chain like a stolen pendant Get those props, follow my light Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice In the gutter where suckers'll cut ya, mothers'll hug ya It all comes down to guns and butter [Outro: C-Rayz Walz] This is crazy, boy. Yeah, we cray, yo. Yo, no doubt. Guns and butter. That boy love that breast. That's what's up. We gon' keep all of that too. Yo!