CunninLynguists - Since When

We flava the music, chop this screw that Take you through church in a verse til you view fact Holy ghost, from the lowly coast, spit humility Facing critics cold fronts, blocking our humidity [Natti] We own rap [Deacon] Fo sho as cognac'll twist you dome back Our tracks? see, they be nappy [Natti] But you can't comb that [Deacon] Call it el natural sound of soul You ain't seen these darts or how fast they've flown [Natti] From, 'tween these parts and the ones 'nere known My slang bang with a twang and hang on earlobes You hear Natti, hot as caddies With no steering column on them [Deacon] With enough lines to dry all the clothes that you own [Natti] Since when did the south [Deacon] Get pinned in a drought [Natti] Not never been clever since bic pens been about Reaching whatever levels that'll suspend any doubt That we as bad as you kids when this mics to our mouth [Hook] I hear 'em talking about souther folks can't rhyme Some of y'all must be out of your god damn mind Yeah, its about that time, we got that shine And niggaz been about them lines Since When? Ever since A Pocket Full of Stones Ridin Dirty in a chevy, sittin heavy on chrome Ever since Goodie Mo had food for soul And them dirty Red Dawgs done hit the do' Since When? [Verse 2: Natti] The Mason-Dixon Line, been across ya mind Like night sticks Rain down on the game and fuck it up like white kicks I might switch, south paw [Deacon] Knuckle to jaw [Natti] If another broke nigga spit about spending it all I spit the gems that you splurge to put around neck So save that to pay back all your loans and debts [Deacon] A Maybach and a plague? Is that all you get? Shhhit [Natti] We struggle to juggle talent with a hell of a sales pitch [Deacon] Standin on southern dirt that helped America get rich You Ain't gotta struggle with a shovel to dig this Cold as no power, after hours in the winter months Hot though [Natti] Crock-pot flow [Deacon] So here dinner comes Walk them sheltoes down underground railroads [Natti] Niggaz fresh outta jail clothes, spittin like hells close [Deacon] And these words are'nt slurred Maybe how you listens blurred You ain't feelin sickness served? Motherfucker kiss a curb [Hook]