The Truth is Back

Southern Smoke.. [Hook] You hear a lot of music, but it's boring You hear a lot of flows, but don't enjoy 'em You hear a lot of albums, and you snoring But the truth is back, now they say where you been Cause we ain't really seen you out performing You back up in the streets, you hot you're boiling Chamillitary click, is the click they wanting You know that OG Ron C, gon screw it for them [Chamillionaire] A lot of DJ's, didn't wanna mess with the kid But like dancers that love to strip, they back up on my dick And of course, maybe it's because of the fact that I'm rich And the diamonds up on my wrist, look like a package of piss Looked like they pissed, in a ice cube tray Put it in the freezer, so by the next day They could put it on my wrist, so that I could display Yellow ice looks like butter, but it isn't parquet Hey, well let me tell you how I did it then Stepped up the mixtapes, and put 'em in every city man Send 'em Greyhound, in every other city and Wallet the size of Guerilla Black's, or Biggie's hand (baby-baby) And I got plenty mo' to do dog, that's true y'all Chamillitary is the click, if that's what you thought Yellow green red white blue, and my new jaw Check out the paint, same colors cover my new car When it come to getting fed, I'm the baker with the bread Know exactly what they said, voices ain't just in my head Get back up in the streets, so the rumors can be dead Cause I'm the rapper that they dread, like Lil' Wayne's head Bumba claat watch, now watch me I'm the one to watch One with a lot of colored cubes, and a bunch of blocks And the watch, and them girls that be coming out The closet with a friend, meet her I just wanna watch Chamillion-ator's on the way, that's who saving the day After the math I bust a rhyme, rapping after you pay Niggas say they songs jamming, yeah that's just what they say Like Part 2 of that Kelly song, they end up being gay But it ain't Weezy, it ain't even B.G Because how much I push the cash money, they don't believe me Turn on the DVD, and the c.d Don't watch me, homeboy watch T.V Head rest, 7.5 Clarion You ain't trying to see me shine, you could carry on Haters hate, and that's the reason that I carry one Make a home run and run home, like Barry Bonds Yeah, I got 'em shook in a towel Ron Artest of rap ha-ha, look at me now Single handedly, handle the suckers up in the crowd Fist to your lip you'll get whipped, while they kicking me out Ouch, cause that looked like it hurt And the worst part about it, is it looks like the dirt Getting acquainted with your shirt, become one with the turf As I watch you fall down, and tell you just what you worth You no good, dirty rotten scoundrel I pull these hoes, like promoters out of town do I get mail, like workers in the color brown do Chamillion you're the best, can't nobody out sound you Chad Hugo to Pharrell, I'm the star on the track Look at my diamonds, and see how many broads they attract And it's true in the studio, they on my balls and my sack Say it's a hit, before Chamillionaire even start on a track I pull up in slow motion, like my car on a flat Trunk going up, like directions that you saw on a map I wear the multi-colors now, but that's part of the fact That I stay throwing up the rocks, like the Carter was back It's the Roc, psyche nigga it's not But it's prolly a rock sized bullet, up in it's pop Sorry mayn I forgot, to put the heater on lock But didn't forget the underground, lock it up for my spot I'm back, and I'm too hot [Hook] Southern Smoke, Southern Smoke