Pop, Lock & Drop it (Week 14)

[Verse 1: Crooked I] Cock the Glock and pop it (Ay!) x8 Yeah, this how it goes homey Those 24s chromey They call me Figaroa, so many hoes on me I grew up so hungry, poor with no clothes, boney Little nigga packing that .44 Pull it out for that dough only They make a move send them bastards in the moss, I Send 'em a round that'll spin 'em around Have 'em traveling through the stars, I'm Scrambling in this yard When I see a mansion in the Hamptons When I go platinum with these bars Guess the answers in the cards I surround myself with people smarter than myself But it's often hard to find an artist harder than myself Hardest artist on the shelf, the one them target markets felt And I'm still heartless with that barker tucked in my Neaman Marcus belt I got more weight on my shoulders than Olympic dead lifters You see them boys on the corner, yeah I'm they head nigga I gave them kush they can push, turn 'em into bread winners So they can pay they mama's rent and ride them fresh spinners This is or my little bro in the pen, I know you living hard When I'm in a booth I'm flipping of the warden and the prison guard I spin the globe daily, when you get home that bitch is ours Big cigars, expensive cars, bitches thicker than a Snickers bar I'm on these brick grinding, look at all the big diamonds Time on the wrist shining, all cause of this sick rhyming Even though I skipped Bryman, I took no college courses I'm in my whip riding, that Porcshe with all them horses I got more bitches than you square niggas put together They want a nigga on them rims pushing that wooden leather Lot of these West Coast rappers done fell off, but Crooked never This C.O.B. 'til I'm R.I.P., I'mma keep it hood forever