Bronx Zoo Freestyle Lyrics by J. Cole
Yeah, DJ ClueDesert Storm (aight)We gon’ set shit offYou know how we do thingsWord
In a Ferrari or Lamb truck switchin’ wide lanes (one)Top down screamin’ out, “Them niggas all lame” (one two)Came up from the mud puddles, then it all changed (check me out right here, yo)Livin’ Ghetto Fab like my brother named Paul CainSomewhere ‘long the way, I hate to say we lost shame (you can turn the track up a little bit for me)Grown men peddlin’ gossip of all things (all up in my ears)I remember when it was rappin’ and ball-playin’ (the mic is loud, but the music isn’t loud)Now the bread and butter is yappin’ and parlayin’Aw man, your name’s a big conversation (yeah)Max deals for Luka Dončić lobbin’ to Ayton (yeah)Know, nowadays you can make a grip commentatin’ (yeah, now the mic is low now, turn the mics up some more)If you master two skills, either dick ridin’ or hatin’ (turn that shit all the way up, yeah)Just look around, the hatin’ and the dick ridin’ is blatantTell Mama your ticket to finally live out of her basementWas found in one magical word, and it’s engagement (uh-huh)And nothing brings that like drama, you might wanna (uh-huh, uh-huh)Personally, I don’t write comments, I write commasWithdrawals, from pictures the pen draws, The Fall-OffThey wanna know if this is the end-all, be-allTo this rap game, he’s trained in CPR (Clueminati)I’m a whole new breed for those that wonder who he think he isThat thunder at night that wake up the sleepyheadsJust when you thought that your boy was completely deadBoom, walked out that tomb like Matthew said that Jesus didWith the whole game on his shoulders, not even strainin’ to hold itI can spin it ’round my fingers and bowl itWhen I write, it’s like I’m guided by the angels, I noticedIt’s like the ghost of Christopher Wallace had came in and wrote itFirst name Jermaine, and it’s goatedNever once has fame been the motive, far from itRespect first, next up my net worthThe best verse belongs to the nigga that should live in the Bronx ZooI stomp through on some King Kong shitLong ding-dong shit, pauseI rinsed off the sauce y’all got lost inAll this false flossin’, dawg, it’s exhaustin’ right?I hate these rappers like I’m Charleston WhiteGive arthritis to authorsIt’s hard to write as hard as the god doesY’all toddlers to me, stop botherin’ meYoung Simba, some niggas threw some hate my wayBut only thing they should say is, “Cole, you like a father to me”The top ain’t really what I thought it would beAnd so I jumped off and landed back at the bottomAnd restarted at a level where I wasn’t regarded as muchJust to climb past them again and tell ’em all to keep upI love itTruly, I’m agin’ backwardsIn the sandboxes, I play with trappersThe K’s pop like Asian rappersThe bullets graze the AfrosPiercin’ through front doorsAnd left holes in a baby mama’s favorite bathrobeUh, thank God no one was homeI’m so in the zoneMight wake up at four in the mornin’Start mowin’ the lawn, discover the snakesPull up to your place and go in aloneCreep to your room, put four in your domeIf your girl scream, tell the queen, “Bitch, lower your tone”Ayy, matter of fact, go on your phoneAdd me on IGI used to be top seedApology dropped me way out of the top threeNo problem, I’m probably my best when they doubt meWatch me, watch me, watch me (DJ Clue)
Desert Storm (Whoo Kid)(DJ Clue)J. Cole, huh
