The Finale lyrics

[Intro: DJ Skee, Crooked I]
For the past year fans have tuned in every single week
But all good things must come to an end
And after fifty-two weeks this is the finale
But we wanted to show that hip hop isn't dead
It lives on through its legacy of all its fallen souls
This is a tribute to them as we carry on the torch
Of what we call hip hop
DJ Skee

We see you, Aaliyah
Yeah, C.O.B., Horseshoe Gang
Let's get 'em

[Verse 1]
I'm in a ruthless coupe because I took the top out
Convertible V-12, I call it pulling my twelfth grade drop out
Riding through the city of Compton like B.G. Knocc Out
Thinking how Eazy made a label all from a rock house
Glock in the crotch above the johnson
I know Bloods from Bompton, I know Cuz from Compton

Speakers bumping that Soulja Slim
Seats cobra skin and I'm on some slow motion rims
There he goes again, the West Coast is him
The fifty-two week in a row flow, don't pretend
You don't know, I know N-O it spells no
But N-O means New Orleans, I creep low
With the nina, motherf*ck FEMA
That's for Katrina, now tell me have you seen a
Meaner underground king riding dirty
My fo-five keep my rivals nervy
In the hood it's a nine to five just trying to survive to thirty
Get a nine and a wise attorney
Yes dude I advise ya

When it comes to heaters keep a couple stashed
I try to be positive but I'm a prisoner of my troubled past
And for me the key to my freedom is to double cash
That and skeet on a bubble ass
I keep my knuckles brassed
I been on one since my uncle passed
It's bosses first and suckers last
You might see the tears under mask
I got a conscious but the guns'll blast
On your buster ass

As we proceed
It's the coke flow, soon as you snort it your nose bleed
Me stop rapping, it's no need
Can't stop busting like Keanu Reeves when the n*gga was on speed
Fully armed, open fire and your dome bleed
With my arms wide open indeed but I'm no Creed
I don't believe you n*ggas but I'm so G'ed
I could get you touched for no cheese like hoe please
I'm so notorious I should know Cease
Don't breathe in the beef, ya sneeze, I'm gone squeeze
Duct tape your spouse mouth, put your seeds on these
All they saw was Dodger hats and white Pro tees
Me and these beats are a good mix
These are ghetto tales like ass on hood chicks
Like 'em when they purebred or they look mixed
Like 'em when they push whips and got good tits
See I'm freaky like Tah and I'm down for the menage a tweezy

Ma treat me like I
All I got is hard c*ck and a Glock
Thanks for the stress relief, it's hard knock on the block
I'm from East Long Beach where no one pretended
Thank God for your life cause a chrome gun could end it
Thinking we won't shoot you in both lungs
You wrong as a best rappers list with no Pun intended (Big Pun)
Cause dude had stupid flow

Most you rappers can't walk and chew Bazooka Joe
I was a snot-nose listening to "Super Hoe"
With my brother j*rkin' a fo', cruising slow
Now it's OA Crooked c*cked the Glock
Lick shots, that's for Scott La Rock
Then I popped the top
On the Hennessy and let some drop on the block
For all the legends we have not forgot
Cause I hate it when you b*tch ass rappers don't pay homage
For those who paved the way, you could be slayed today
Shame on a n*gga for trying to run game on a n*gga
No love, a fame wantin' n*gga
f*ck a whole song, I could tell before verse two
You in it for the money, lack of skills are your first clue
I will merc you
Even when the tempo switch up I just switch it up in the first two
I think I'm harder than the bottom of a church shoe
Keep a Desert Eagle cause I know it got a bird's view
Ask Brooklyn, the place Dirt McGirt blew
They'll tell you I go in like I got a curfew
I'm writing lyrical bibles n*gga, I'll learn you
Like I'm at the pulpit and you sitting in the first pew

Dude I get busy or what
I'm in the booth tipsy, dizzy as f*ck
My cousin Saucy rolling a big L, lean mixed in his cup
He took a sip and start giving it up
This is C.O.B., different from you is my whole team
No lowriders, just Harley Davidson Road Kings
Khakis and Chucks, that was our old thing
Now it's Prada sneakers, designer jeans and mo' bling
Flamboyant, you can't toy with
That boy stay on point, I'm that poignant

To a snitch I'm rat poison, that noise get
Killed with mad joy, that's on some Fat Boys sh*t
Cause I never seen a human beat a box
Put him in a coffin as soon as the heater pops
Sorry I'm so violent, maybe I need a pops
My father figures kept nine millimeter Glocks
Straight killers, gang bangers and weight dealers
Paid n*ggas since Michael Jackson made Thriller

And all I want to do is make a break iller
Something I had in common with J Dilla
I grew up in the hood where they fight everyday
Better be good with your hands like a faith healer
Ay will I ever make it out, my city is a slum village
They kill over crumbs, us Attila the Huns pillage

Yes, blessed to hear one of the realest
Yes, I pen sentences while a n*gga dodge pen sentences
Treat you like an apprentice and show you what the business is
Creep with me as we crawl through the hood
We was all on the road, me, Spider, Eastwood
And my homegirl Left Eye, why do the best die?
Same question I ask Bedstuy
That's my homegirl, prolific female spitter
I graced the cover of double XL with her
Never shall forget her, kind of felt bitter
The way the media did her
But that's another song

Left Eye gone, 2Pac gone
When Crooked I die, don't cry, carry on
Hundred K cashier check in the carry-on
Tell 'em I lived my life popping that Don Perignon

On the run like Barrion Jones, I carry chrome
Cops want me in the cell 'til I'm older than Larry Holmes
n*ggas looking like Larry Holmes, flabby and sick
That was my sh*t, damn near had me crashing my whip
Picture me rolling, still living like a pimp when he's strolling
Still lyrics sicker than the sh*t in your colon
Still gutter like Obama when the n*gga was bowling
Handle a nine like an hour before ten in the morning
Put an intentional hole in your dome
Wicked as a non-fictional omen, n*gga this is your warning

Don't make my chrome thing blow you away
It ain't nothing for me to go and lay low in the Bay
Get scooped by my down ass hoe in the Yay
Mac Dre t-shirt, jeans by Christian Audigier
You can tell I'm fresh from far away
Bad ass milf got a daughter in Junior High
She thirty-something but you can't tell from the human eye
She tell me I'm super fly
I tell her since I'm dressed to kill if I look in the mirror it's suicide

Who am I to decide if you should try suicide or not
Crucified by Glock, to survive my block
It was stupified, used to ride a lot
Drive-by shooters light the spot, human lifes could stop
You and I could drop
It's do or die, looters get the Ruger pipes to pop
Trying to find some nirvana, deal with a lot of drama
If you think I'm crazy blame it on Cali drama
Know I need to seek peace like the Dali Llama
But I'm around more thieves than Ali Baba
Mama didn't teach young Crooked how to talk this way
Keep guns in my waist, that's why I walk this way

And I'm lost today
Cause I know how my side cost the JMJ in an awful way
Playing Jason Mizell while I'm chasing tizail
And shizell toe Adidas, no laces as well
I don't want his killers taking spaces in jail
Naw, rather see them haters' faces in hell
I'm raising hell like Jay in '86
C.O.B. is my religion so I'm no atheist

But I use beats and rhymes to make crazy hits
Are you crazy, b*tch?
I ain't lazy, I'm fifty-two weeks deep
Did it for my people, they ain't pay me ish
n*ggas angry, money can't change me
pus*y ass rappers yeah you make me sick
b*tches chase me, n*ggas want to waste me
Face me, let the .380 rip
Test me, I dare ya
If you ain't too proud to beg for your life I might spare ya
I'll tear ya limb from limb
Then make clothes out of your skin, I'm sick enough to wear ya

There ya go, back to the mac and the pimpin'
The black Cadillac and the limpin'
Shaq's in the back and it's packed full of women
Attractive with racks and the backs you could swim in
I tell them hoes you a profit or a prophet
Since you can't tell the future put the profit in my pocket
One tried to play me, came up shorter than a hobbit
Baby put the brakes on your high heels and stop it
When I come up you go down, down, down
Treat me like Mossberg and pound, pound, pound
Me and DJ Skee, we both get around
When we walk in the club, they break it down to the ground

Week fifty-two, I'm being all that I can be
Grew up in the hood, poverty was all that I could see
How could someone possibly block a dream of stopping me
I could lose it all and never fall to mediocrity
Rolling on them blocks and I see a whole lot of mes
Gotta keep it gangsta for life, no apologies

[Interlude]
No apologies, for being gangsta
But I gotta go
No apologies n*gga (Hip Hop Weekly)
Love me or hate me
Hip Hop Weekly, fifty-two, we gotta go
I love ya'll
C.O.B., Circle of Bosses
Eastside, Long Beach

If nothing else
If nothing else
This series stand as what
Proof
Proof that I grab this motherf*ckin' mic man
And T-T-A-U
AKA tear that ass up hahahaha
Yeah, and you know we can't do it
We can't end this sh*t without Proof
Ya nawmean
My Hip Hop Weekly over the last Proof beat
Was one of my favorites
It's that new Proof sh*t here, that unreleased Proof sh*t
Yeah, I'm so serious with this sh*t man
I die for this sh*t

[Verse 2]
I'm the feeling you get
When you deeply think of dying
I'm as real as it get
My pain lead to speakers crying
Keep an eye on my features
Peep the science, you think I'm lying
When you think of me, think of Zion lions and sleeping giants
And picture petrified MCs quietly creeping by him
Think of a G eating beats to keep me from squeezing iron
Think of the publicity my series got without spending bread
Think about it, hip hop is not dead

[Outro]
Yeah, Hip Hop Weekly
We fifty-two, C.O.B., Circle of Bosses
I love everybody who took part in this series
We all made history together
C.O.B. forever
Shouts out to SK, shake, Nema
Craig that clap, Brian, Styles, Scott, Peter, Crew, C from Nebraska
Ali and the Dynasty online Community
Hip Hop Weekly, fifty-two