Childs Play Lyrics - Throwing The Game - Lucky Boys Confusion

I'm in the wrong fucking place, at the wrong fucking time 

Don't worry motherfucker cause I'll still get mine 

I know the magnitude of the right attitude 

Remember one day you'll be showing me gratitude 

Inevitably you will agree, your fragile ego I'm denting 

Unnecessary jealousy, why are you resenting 

Lucky Boys Confusion ripping leaves off clovers 

Adam I'm about to send the limelight over, kid 

Well, hello my my how the tables have turned 

You got your new style and the tricks that you learned 

From me, go let go of the ghetto phase 

It's like everybody's trying to earn a buck these days 

Ripping off my kids, with your ziplock bags 

You think you're rolling now, you need to step the fuck back 

We'll take care of Arizona, handle the schwag 

Shorty got a brand new bag 

When say opportunity knock on me door 

Such a shame it's not the music, it's how much they score in their pocket 

Now, the band plays I see the dollar sign in your eyes 

But guess what Mr. Parasite we can see through all of your lies 

I'm rocking mic stands daily, I'm merely 

Two blocks away from the venue, 

It's not as if you can hear me, clearly 

Bringing up on the styles which were ours, nearly 

With help from the stars of the past 

Enhanced with your modern day melodies 

Beats that kick your ass and you agree 

I'm not up here to rock the room alone 

Stubhystyle pick up the microphone 

I'm back by popular demand, some people don't understand 

Why I'm laughing fucking up all the shit you planned 

Cause your motives weren't true and either were you 

Trying to figure out how I do the things I do 

A word of advice if you already haven't 

Go out, step out, special order some talent 

Don't say I'm not a musician cause I can hold my own 

And bitch I play the microphone 

Ooooh, mama did you hear they want make me superstar 

Ooooh, mama did you hear they're gonna make me a star 

You seemed startled by the way that I approach the mic 

But isn't my tongue spitting out all the things you like 

Mixing flavors together like Neapolitan, tight 

Clam baking the limousine 

He sprinkles on his stardust before he hits the street 

A victim of his ego, pop rock society 

His gear is nice and trendy; you got your baggy jeans 

He's got a few piercings but nothing to extreme 

Radio friendly writings is the highway to money 

Maybe we'll be stars if we give them what they need 

I get twelve percent off the music I make 

And the image that they're selling you is fake