| Intro: Golden Boy
|
| Yeah, fuckin up, yo, not enough, spark a bagel
|
| Verse 1: Golden Boy
|
| It’s the rougher, rhymer slash hustler subscriber
|
| I stumble from under covers to plain clothes by the
|
| Time most other folks luncheon
|
| My line of work don’t require nothing like punching
|
| The clock, I talk right off top, mic’ed, on topic or all live
|
| I’m trying to find a spot in the tropic
|
| Come off it, nah truly
|
| Yo this shit is like rap video shoot without the total treats
|
| Unique the way he rips any kind of paper
|
| Do his duty to confine the data from a faker
|
| Plagiarizer please take a skydeezy from a scraper
|
| I’m fiending for the cherry vapor
|
| Very high
|
| Carry my merry men to the airy sky valkyries prepare to die
|
| Or however you pronounce it, I’ve been in areas with hairy ounces
|
| Buried into coffee grounds
|
| When he go to get a cup of joe, get astounded
|
| Think I seen a pound of green in the Folger’s brown
|
| So you found it, better go to town and start breaking up
|
| I’m saying son, baking is the best park of waking up
|
| Hook: Golden Boy
|
| Yo, yo, yo, yo, the business
|
| Need to ship it, dip it in some Folger’s
|
| Even the most cultured doberman couldn’t sniff it
|
| They missed it
|
| Well heck, I’m liking this system
|
| Smells fresh, exciting
|
| It’s so exciting to me
|
| Verse 2: Coates
|
| Yo two seven percent forties are the Irish jetpacks
|
| And my incredible hulk innards will fight setbacks
|
| Mount really where cold winters are froze stiller
|
| Icicles in his speech homie I’m mad chiller
|
| When he cam to the fork in the road, headed straight to the space whip
|
| Birds eye view of the prose, rhymes like a lightbulb with no switch
|
| Scratch every January holding no chips
|
| Puffy coates is a herbalist on a mission to make weed immediately
|
| Thought he was a journalist, so blitzed
|
| Must have put the stash in the Folgers
|
| Supernova sighting on the couch in a coma
|
| If I don’t get some fuckin vitamin d sippin the grey sky
|
| Heineken where is the sky hiding it
|
| And for the dust on my mpc let’s make em envy
|
| Hook: Golden Boy
|
| Yo, yo, yo, yo, the business
|
| Need to ship it, dip it in some Folger’s
|
| Even the most cultured doberman couldn’t sniff it
|
| They missed it
|
| Well heck, I’m liking this system
|
| Smells fresh, exciting
|
| It’s so exciting to me
|
| Verse 3: Golden Boy
|
| Sunset rider train level boss pistol dueling
|
| Slick rolling dive behind boxes while I’m shooting
|
| Both hands drooling, fat yellow slugs slow movement
|
| Laid back coolin on the track metal slug music
|
| Batter up for X Factor, who’s in it for the cheddar only when they need to use
|
| it
|
| And which crew’s got my back now from the ruthless
|
| Ruin of the stackhound
|
| Boot it up the cut with the cracked valves cooing
|
| Sounding like cats and the raccoons scrapping out back of old shacks on the
|
| mountain
|
| Cut me slack or be found in the fountain
|
| Let the track breathe
|
| Get to howling
|
| Let the track breathe
|
| Get to howling
|
| Hook: Golden Boy
|
| Yo, yo, yo, yo, the business
|
| Need to ship it, dip it in some Folger’s
|
| Even the most cultured doberman couldn’t sniff it
|
| They missed it
|
| Well heck, I’m liking this system
|
| Smells fresh, exciting
|
| It’s so exciting to me |