Get Busy - Marco Polo, Copywrite

Ladies and gentlemen, you ain’t gotta stay in your element

My staff chuckles while brass knuckles scraping your melanin

You claiming it was an accident, pay me a settlement

You saying you wasn’t having it, I gave it, you yelling, «Quit!»

Oh, it’s on the low though?

I stuff cigars with stuff from jars

Above the stars, M.P., they ain’t heard drums this hard

I shoot my load ten feet and they asking if I ever thought I’d come this far

Look, I knew I’d do it, the question is who was stupid to mess with this

Who was losing a second, this music scooped and the weapon is

To his crew and the message is, «Don't push me»

You’re so pussy that you’re oozing with estrogen

Straightjacket tightened by my psycho ward

And he straight up forgot to lace up my Michael Jordans

I don’t write no chorus, my alterego writes those for us

Fuck a tree dog, I light whole forests

I’ve got the flows to toast most approachers

And got the toes so foes don’t approach us

Nah, Jakki brought the shotty and a case, check it

Liquor’ll make em drop Shells quicker than J Records

And the crowd’s mine, I’ll out-rhyme your hood

I’m outside with about nine guys, it’s good

While you peasants crowd by my foot to rhyme when I’m done

But that’s saying they’re trying to get outshined like Suge

Look, you pussies either roll eight or one

Trying to jump me but still can’t, they hate on son

They’ll get their money jacked, see me in the span of a few years

Do shit till they see me off Jack, Patron, and a few beers

Mixture of Big L, Big Pun, and Biggie

With an attitude like Jigga so if you come and get me

Bring eight people, a spiked bat and a gun to clip me

And if I got you for money wait until I’m drunk to hit me, pussy

Matter fact, you ain’t even a pussy

You’re what bleeds when the summer’s eve cleaning the pussy

C.O.P.

you freestyle to see no fee

I am the C.O.

bringing it to you COD

Cash on delivery, and no one can do it better, shit

I’m the D-O-C with OCD, spit heat like a Creole feast

That’s why they be on Pete’s dick to the point I don’t see my own feet

I can introduce you to your maker

You got a problem with me homeboy, step to me

Strap you down and slap you ‘round

Yeah I said it

Star sprinter, run any track flash above par

Blow sniffer, jacking coke like a bartender

Punchlines till your bar’s tender so celebs cars enter

And we’re shooting stars like Haley’s Comet denting car fenders

My car’s bouncing, got hydraulics and metal toys

Yours ride’s mind’s playing tricks like the Geto Boys

Why am I lying?

I ain’t got the car and I’m unemployed

My rent’s due in a day and on it I don’t have but a coin

No pot to piss in or to cop a squat and drop my shit in

Radio off so I can listen to my couch petition

Alka Seltzer plop and fizzing from vodka sipping

Waking up with a naked slut and my boxers missing

Hip hop is getting out of control

Every coward that flows is a gangster till the powder’s out of his nose

Man in '95 I thought music was losing its touch

Compared to now that was a golden era, who would’ve thunk?

Now this shit is full of gimmicks, energy, cynics, and critics

Who hate one minute then the next want finish your sentence

This fake game makes we want to take names

With the chrome in hand and take aim like I own this, man

But I’m not trying to spend life beneath dirt

Or with Shyne and C-Murder

I grind til each word’s in the mind of each person populating earth

Cop the tape and stop the hating jerk