Ignorant Lyrics - Cassiopeia - L.o.c.

Yeah, I appreciate your patience tonight 

It's been a moment since I've done some public speaking 

I find nowadays it's, you know, best to keep quiet 

But, uh, sometimes you just gotta let it out 

Young Angel and Young Lion, you know what it is 

Look, I'm the property of October 

I ain't drive here, I got chauffeured 

Bring me champagne flutes, rosé and some shots over 

I think better when I'm not sober 

I smoke goodie, no glaucoma, I'm a stockholder 

Private flights back home, no stop over 

Still spittin' that shit that they shot Pac over 

The shit my mother look shocked over 

Yeah, but with a canvas I'm a group of seven 

A migraine, take two Excedrin 

I'm the one twice over, I'm the new eleven 

And if I die I'm a do it reppin', I never do a second 

I swear niggas be eyeing me all hard 

And lying to they girls and driving the same cars 

Sitting there wishing they problems became ours 

'Cause we have nothing in common since I done became star 

I done became bigger swerving writing in my peer's lane 

Same dudes that used to holler my engineer's name 

One touch I could make the drapes and the sheers change 

And show me the city that I without fear claim 

What I set seems to never extinguish 

Coolest kid out, baby, word to Chuck Inglish 

Count my own money, see the paper cut fingers 

My song is your girlfriend's waking-up ringer 

Heh, or alarm, or whatever 

She be here at six in the morn' if I let her 

But I never get attracted to fans 

'Cause the eager beaver could be the collapse of a dam 

I always knew that I could figure 

How to get these label heads to offer him good figures 

And me doing them shows 

Getting everyone nervous, 'cause them hipsters gon' have to get along with them hood niggas 

It's all good, I'm going off, like lights when the show's over 

Make pasta, rent a movie, call hoes over 

Rest in peace to Heath Ledger, but I'm no joker 

I'll slow roast ya, got no holster 

Wet glass on your table, nigga; no coaster 

Burn bread everyday, boy; no toaster 

G and Tez got a SIG, but I'm no smoker 

They just handin' chips to me, nigga; no poker 

I'm with it, Young Money, Cash Money soldier 

My cup runneth over 

The same niggas I ball with I fall with 

On some southern drawl shit 

Rookie of the year, '06 Chris Paul shit 

D-R., CJ, and Po, I see y'all 

These cases don't work out I hope we can agree on 

Making enough to pay any Judge Judy off 

First thing I'm a do is free Weezy, go 

And I'd take probation 

I don't want that T.I. and Vick vacation 

Private plane, pick location 

I'm going to the bank to make a big donation 

Yeah, I don't stunt, I stunt hard 

And if the food ain't on the stove I hunt for it 

But in the meantime you can call me young Roy 

Jones Jr. fighting the drugs and gun charge 

Shit, don't leave me unguarded 

And I'm a cheese head, word to Vince Lombardi 

Word to Marky Mark, leave a snitch departed 

All that blood like the red sea parted 

My gun go crazy, like it's retarded 

Red light on it, like it's recording 

I ain't recording, I'm just C-4ing 

My currency foreign; we are in a league they aren't 

Better dig in your pocket and pay homage 

Better cover your eyes, your face fallin' 

Watch the game from the side, I'm play callin' 

No, I didn't say that I'm flawless 

But I damn sure don't tarnish 

My pistol got comments for your garments 

I'm so high I can vomit on a comet 

K-y, no homo, I'm on it 

Weezy F Baby, new born bitch 

You know what they say 'bout when your palm itch 

I'm going get money, money I'm gon' get 

Young Money in your tummy and we gon' shit 

And get that toilet paper quick, like when Bones spit 

That's right, bitch, I'm back on my grown shit 

That Audemars Piguet, no ice, just chrome shit 

And your boyfriend softer than a foam pit 

I scream, "Fuck the world with a long dick!" 

Motherfucker, I'm me! Yeah, bitch, I'm me! 

You niggas sweet, like the pussy in which I eat 

Fireman burn down your entire street 

So fly I'ma take off when I leap 

Bye! Then you can suck my wings 

Stand on my money, head butt Yao Ming 

Put your hand in the oven if you touch my things 

I'm shuffling the cards, 'bout to cut my queens 

But I ain't the dealer 

House full of bitches, like Tila Tequila 

Yeah, I'm the man in the mirror 

My swagger just screaming, motherfucker, do you hear her? 

Drizzy Drake what the lick read 

We make magic, boy; Roy and Siegfried