[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