Will E. - Outta Pocket

Now they say I'm way Outta Pocket
I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Pressing ya luck, you better stop me
Pressing ya luck, you better stop it
If you gotta gun you better cock it
If you gotta gun you better cock it
And you better pray it shoot a rocket
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
I'm getting way Outta Pocket
I'm getting way too toxic
I'm getting way too much bread
You better pray that shit is gossip
Yall better pray for the market
Yall better pray for the profit
Yall better prey on my downfall
Damn, the reign aint stopping
I didn't even eat half of the edible
And i've already done something incredible
Moving the decimal, Garbbing my testicles,
Signed a few autographes, Shits even legible
Texted a few Jezebels, Look at my schedule
Got me some super head, Now i'm ahead a you
Put ya heads together, Thats what you better do
If yall dont think of something clever I'm telling you
I'm getting way outta pocket
They say I'm way too cocky
I think i'm more like Meek
Meaning i'm way more Rocky
No he didn't hail from Philly
But you can not NOT feel me
How could you not like WiLL E?
Prally cause you not like WiLL E
Boy get yo mind right! Really?
OF COURSE YOU NOT LIKE WiLL E!
Hold the glock and hit yo man
And change yo mind right wit em
Something's not right wit em
Diddy-bop like Diddy
I been ready, the pen heavy
You can not write wit em
You try to shine in my city
They send 9 like 50
Niggas cant even milly-rock
Without getting popped in my city
If you dont want ya body hard
Then body guard like Whitney
We die by the toast or the pot holes
The whole Post Road shitty
Im from a small town called Nap Town
Watch ya back, we dont back down
Bring the Malace to yo Palace
Run up in the stands
Fuck yo fans
Fuck yo family
And fuck yo friends
At ya throat for throwing Coke cans
Go at ya with a hatchet
No we wont at ya
Wont go posting
Just match ya wit a casket
Call the pastor and the bastard
Rode a ghost in
Sip'n on gin
Gross man! Sick with the pen
Who diagnosed him
There he goes again like
Harden in the Garden
Lawd, you Knicks cant gurad him
Way outta pocket
I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Pressing ya luck, you better stop it
Pressing ya luck, you better stop me
If you gotta gun you better cock it
If you gotta gun you better cock it
And you better pray it shoot a rocket
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Cause I'm getting way, I'm getting way
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Bitch I'm getting way, I'm getting way
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
I aint come here to play, I'm getting way
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
Man yall pray and get out the way
Cause I'm getting way Outta Pocket
One more thing for I go
Any you as dope as me I'm like No
Ima bad man, bad man
But Jesus please dont call me Michael
I'm more Jesus with a side of psycho
Dont even need a reason to shred MCs to pieces
Bleed every last R&B heathen still breahen
I think ya best bet's to leave em
Stop playing wit em
Got the time today, got the stamina
Bouta take advantage of stand ya ground
And aim that thang at ya camera
Never thought "nina" be a model huh?
See if that shit get ya follows up
Gave my last fuck, had it bottled up
But from your view, your crew got bottles up
RIP

Written by:
DeVin Resnover

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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