Studio Gangster Lyrics - Pooh-man

"I've seen you on the street" "Where you from?" "From Oakland" 

"Nah, you're not from Oakland, I know Oakland" 

Let's take a ride with the boy from the Eastside 

Where nothing's a crime no roots to a bye-bye 

Tired of motherfuckers spitting nothing but drama rhymes 

Flapping his lips, and ain't never squeezed a nine 

Try to compete with me fool, you ain't competitive 

Stop claiming my town, before I give your ass a sedative 

Haymaker and uppercuts, hey nigga you weak as fuck 

I'm hitting like Tyson, so fool what's up? 

You and your boys, you pop a whole lot of weak shit 

Yelling "Pooh-Man is flapping" but he's fucking your bitch 

Getting ganked by your manager, did for your cash 

That's what you get with your uneducated ass 

Pooh's the pistol-toting, dank-smoking, bitch-choking 

Young player from Oakland 

I was taught by O.G.'s fool, what you stressing? 

AK's, Mac 12's fool, Smith & Wessons 

You got the audacity to false claim where you be 

R.I.P. to S-P-I-C-E 

You wanna be down with my town but my town ain't down with ya clown 

So studio gangster put your motherfucking mic down 

I'm coming for your ass, nigga, you're outta pocket 

Squeeze the trigger, eight ball in the corner pocket 

A lotta stories circulating round town 

Seems my peers in this business try to put me down 

He said this, she said that 

But you know where they talking that fool: behind my back 

Never had the guts to step up 

And my fans know that I can take a rhyme and change the flow 

Somewhat of a realist, cause I stay as real as this 

And all those other brothers can do is make a wish 

Huh, so I refuse to kiss they ass 

I got something better, motherfucker (gunshots) 

More and more I find myself in the media 

Or maybe on the screen for New Line Cinema 

Yeah, your lips are flapping but my bank is still stacking 

'93 and I ain't out to do nothing but keep taxing 

Punk-ass bitch, you slimy-ass worm 

When will you learn you only get what the fuck you earn? 

I'm from the town of the motherfucking Mack 

Even my bitch draws a big black gat, huh 

So all the talking you doing gets you nowhere, player 

The "Peace to My Nine" bullshit I just couldn't bear 

Here's my glock, listen to me cock it 

The trigger is pulled, it's eight ball in the corner pocket 

I'm getting tired of my name used in a bad way 

Even though I ain't around, these fools got something to say 

Claim I'm a thug, I sell drug ficticious 

Man I'm telling you, these lies be vicious 

And these same motherfuckers be all in my face 

'93 I got the pop, and they all want a taste 

You see I'm out to get richer, in otherwords more cash 

Pooh be coming in first with these niggas coming in last 

So I take my nine and my sensor alarm 

And I straight go crazy and take his fucking head off 

For being all in my fucking mix 

You punk motherfucking ass hoe-trusting bitch 

Yeah your partner pump you up, you throw your chest in the air 

And then you got the nerves to badmouth a player 

If I was you I'd shut my motherfucking mouth 

Before my partner Little E blow your motherfucking head off 

You want some funk nigga, well you got it 

It's like eight ball to the corner pocket