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    Boot Camp Clik / Lyrics

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    "Had It Up 2 Here" Lyrics

    Boot Camp Clik

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    It's going down baby!
    Bucktown, Duckdown baby (whispering)
    My BCC, Cocoa be'z, Top Dog (Sean Price)
    Starang where you at? BDI Eye we got to this
    people, Don (Louieville)
    Niggaz had it up to here (Louieville)
    A nigga had it up to here (Louieville)
    I'm tired of fallen' (Louieville)
    Slugs fallen' all day (Steele)
    Feelin' this, feelin' this (Steele)

    I'm in the ride right
    Getting high right
    When some guy comes wit some papers for me to sign right
    Aight money started acting fly
    Like I ain't shit he the one that should be in the lime light
    Saying the rhyme tight
    Coming all out his face
    Saying that he's better than any rapper that out right
    I'm like look I care if you were dumb like
    Your demo was reviewed in The Source and they gave you 9 mics
    I can care less who you look like
    Or who you rhyme like
    Let me show what a real MC sounds like

    I pulled up to the red light
    Somebody was parked on my right
    I heard them like K
    Ain't you that little nigga from Bucktown or Ducktown or whatever?
    What's up with you now nigga
    As a matter of fact I got some rough shit and going to love it
    Make you a million boy if you fuck with
    Trust me dog my flow is grimy
    Soon as spit you dog you'll be the first to sign me
    Listen your flow is all right though
    Really wasn't tight though
    You're kind of loose with eight bite flows
    Got me like whoa!
    Let me keep it moving or my shottie might blow
    Spittin' but you bullshit me yo
    I can't hear your ill sub-libs
    You ain't gotta feel boot camp to fill some tins
    But you will respect the 4th Star
    Or I'm spit 4 at your sports car
    When you spit bar listen par
    You better respect or I'ma have the check
    Let the loan half of the check got yet hum
    Who was it 'cause only stopped I cause I thought knew who it was
    Now move up

    I had it up to here with why y'all weak ass rappers
    DJ's CEOs I want why y'all to know
    I had it up to here with why y'all hundred grand producers
    Fake ass thugs, dress codes in clubs
    I had it up to here with why y'all PDRs
    Racist cops cheeba holders don't me start
    I had it up to here with why y'all wannabe stars
    Trying to be who you ain't just be who you are, man

    Who you think your talking be
    Get your head bust to the white meat, questioning me
    Won't play cause I won't pay what you think I'm a bitch
    Never tell who shot you what think I'm a snitch
    But I will the order for them to smack you up
    Clap you up, yo money lone we snatch you up
    Think you hide where, I got family over there and they all think like me
    We had it up to here

    Ayo, I was a broke working nigga
    This rap got me money
    I had bitches; my good looks kept the honies
    But in the game niggaz with real money
    They steal from me, when you mention my name
    I changed the real money
    In the game after a few years
    I'm still hungry, put the band back together
    Its bout get real ugly yo
    I crush plenty guys, I had plenty wives
    I'm on old school tapes I'm only twenty-five
    Niggaz would doubt me, bitches talk about me
    They both wouldn't be shit without me
    Starang One

    Yes, Yes why y'all
    Why y'all know niggaz ready to brawl why y'all
    Hit the floor why y'all
    The 4-pound leaving all why y'all wasted
    The gun powder can you taste it
    The Big Khahuna ready to ride up in your place, bitch
    Can you feel me?
    These bitch niggaz trying to kill
    No what they do to me, to try to fool me see
    D.O. stay sharp and on top of my game
    Spittin' my flames, so don't throw dirt on my name
    I'm trying to hold lot of thing and make a whole lot of cream
    All the plots and the schemes got me doing wicked things

    Shoot your moms, stab your pops, rape your daughter
    Get the moment on the tape recorder
    Give copies out to every nigga up in the hood
    Let them know I'm not the nigga to fuck with up in the hood
    Give me some weed, give some coke, give me some dope
    Give your seed; give me your throat, give me some rope
    Choking your bitch provoking your click
    To get guns, smoking a spliff
    You're throwing a fit, now that's fun
    Backpack niggaz acting all funny and shit
    Till I them that shit is wack they're no money in this

    And you female rappers I'm end your careers
    Rap my hands around your throat while you get banged from the rear
    I'm the type of nigga that will throw a shell in your arm
    You the type to snitch, bitch
    Why you telling my moms listen
    Why y'all bitch niggaz are bout as wack as come
    Don't make me clap you in the back of the ass when I'm done

    We pack 10 billion, 987 million, 654 thousand
    321 hundred fans in housing know how we get down and
    What this shit about The Boot Camp sounding it's astounding
    But I'm tried of it, questioning why y'all budget
    I want to snuff but I look him and be like ah fuck it
    But now I ride wit it when I blow I slide wit it
    All I know I'm Boot Camp and are niggaz

    Now a days I had it up to here (Louieville)
    This song was submitted on August 18th, 2013 and last modified on November 24th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © Royalty Network Music Publishing Ltd..
    Written by Darry Lyates, Darryl Yates Jr., J. Mcnair, Kenyatta Blake, Sean Price, Tekomin Williams, W. Evans, Walter Dewgarde Jr.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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