Street Cred lyrics

[Intro]
(Antt Did the Track)
What up, gang?
Yeah

[Verse 1]
Been trying to keep my promise to put all my n*ggas on
I'm tired of being modest, been humble for too long
Gotta make competition, tryna keep up with the Jones
While n*ggas like me, I'm just tryna keep up with the phones
Flat Rock to Hamtramck, serving in a foreign
Slapboxing, still jamming, 30 A.M
AMG Benz, double parked it on the corner
Matchbox and bills, had to serve just to pay rent
Birdbathing, different socks and drawls with the same shirt
Counted out three hundred but was all in a days work
Can't perk, n*ggas mad at Blocks 'cause they ain't turnt
Drumroll on the fully, bump into a bullet face first
Aces wild out the deck 'til I pull a joker
And snatch thе chain from around your neck, book him for his choker
Bloodclaat told me to smokе it over
He said "You must ain't ever had your mugshot on a wanted poster"
Fed bound with a open folder
These n*ggas tried to press the button on me so I kept that 'mote controller

[Chorus]
sh*t so poetic when I spit it, it's like spoken word
Real Concreature, teacher had to grade me on the curb
Now they label me "Kingpin" for standing on my word
We used to piece up, chip in and ante on the bird
Shedded tattoo tears, I know you overheard
Throughout the years this street sh*t been working on my nerves
It's gang time, 227, n*ggas know the verdict
I'm done giving n*ggas credit that they don't deserve
[Verse 2]
(n*ggas finished)
All these overs and these extras, ghetto Steven Spielberg
Cut another edit, stunt double coming up on the exit
Behind the scenes with this movie clip, don't make me run the credits
A lot of action, you are now rocking with the Jackson
Been catchin' possum downtown like I'm Johnny Paxson
For my day ones, I'm quick to let that chopper stutter
Ayy Young, sh*t, that's like my big adopted brother
f*ck a pus*y, go and tell me what I done done
If that n*gga plug can't sell me what I done slung
All of the money to the family that I done brung
Real gritter, still can post on Bellevue without a gun
That's the least of n*ggas' worries when you from the trenches
How many n*ggas from your hood you know that touched a ticket?
Ain't gotta lie on my supply, ain't gotta front to kick it
Ghetto Olympics, from the hook I was jumpin' pickets

[Chorus]
sh*t so poetic when I spit it, it's like spoken word
Real Concreature, teacher had to grade me on the curb
Now they label me "Kingpin" for standing on my word
We used to piece up, chip in and ante on the bird
Shedded tattoo tears, I know you overheard
Throughout the years this street sh*t been working on my nerves
It's gang time, 227, n*ggas know the verdict
I'm done giving n*ggas credit that they don't deserve
[Outro]
n*ggas ain't putting no work in for this sh*t
I had to grit this sh*t out
Yeah, n*gga
What else?