1999 WRITE THE FUTURE, Ghostface Killah, Smino, Rich Brian and Surprise Chef - SPIKY BOiz

(Bitch, I do my dance in ninety-nine ranch)
Yeah, yo, uh-huh, yeah, yo

A metaphorical wizard, metaphorical blizzard
These metaphors is better off cuffed and locked in a prison
Ain't any bodies can take on antibiotics
Anybody can be a body or be a homi' in the wrong position
Diagnostic, I'm so high, fly on a higher octave
Toxic, eyes wide staring at the apocalypse
Sippin' from pearl goblets with gold droplets
The cover that I write in my tablet is all ostrich
Songs of elegant psalms that I call my hostage
Harmonica plays with a xylophone and pays homage
Exposing fake theories in the quantum physics
Jails with more blood on the floor than a Compton visit
That's why I play in the clubs, lotta girls and thugs
Wu-tang, thought I was a kid the way I play with plugs
Don't underestimate the power instead you should bless the cape
Barbershop talk, ask around I'm in the best of baits

Damn, heard you still calling a deal
Your A&R went AWOL so you ain't driving for real
Man down, spent your whole budget on cribs in the hills
And called it work but nothing to show but a bitch
You crashed out Cold bossa nova and pill
Those clothes are from hoes that dispose you to thrift at the Real that I get
Going hard to dine in the yard with all them Afrobeat broads, you don't ever record
I made a sacrifice around the time I couldn't afford a sack of rice
So when I got it blowing like a saxophone with bad advice
Tragic like a niggas with false perception to get the hoes excited
Plus you sold the rights to all your writers spent it all on ice and
No cake with all that icing, what you gon' do next? Pawn shop pricing
Rich song cuz my dick long and they drive crash
Tired of you niggas on ya neck, I'm on your ascot
Proud of my nigga, he got outta and kept his nose clean
Hold my brother down I'm standing ten until my toes sting
Pretty girl PG county got me in a choke I mean
If she on my mind she ain't just fine she the dopamine
Is she on my body call it ain't it 'cause ain't I?
Can't get on my plane so they complaining, they ain't fly
Hate because their money ain't straight, pockets gay, huh?
Fake it to they make it niggas AI, fuck it

Shrooms, drugs
Tell 'em Zero gang in the club
Tell 'em Wu-Tang in the club
Lemonade chain, pucker-up
This world corrupt
But don't mean shit I fuck it up
Just tell me where you need a nigga flood
Bitch couldn't believe it was us
This world corrupt
But don't mean shit I fuck it up
Tell 'em Zero gang in the club
Tell 'em Wu-Tang in the club

Ayy, lil' baby so magnetic like a doorstop
Tipsy off the fourth shot, fuck a happy end
I'm not the one to plot against
Pissin' off the D.O.P, I'm never switchin' for the lens
You be rappin' for the hoes
I'ma steadfast, never change the vision for these lame-ass
Y'all be gettin' baked but I'm just posted where the cake at
Batter, batter, batter, gunnin' for that four-letter
Is it mili' or the mammal? Your pocket in need of scandal
My pocket is safe, I got no fear in my heart, I'm paid in the land of the brave
She don't ever dress up but except when she go to the rave
Rappers never rappin' on the beat 'less it's drownin' in bass
But move in your pace
I paint a picture, you just spreadin' a propaganda
Rocket been takin' off and she gave me a proper landing
And I went through hell and back still never sniffin' no dandruff
I don't got all my answers, you livin' off advances
And you takin' pride in the gimmick, uh
Only for the paper will I fly into the premise, uh
Fashion Nova love you cause your album full of fillers
The hype done got you gassed your fans decreasin' when it simmers, uh
But it's not my business

Written by:
Andrew Congues, Brian Imanuel, Carl Lindeberg, Christopher Smith Jr., Dennis David Cole, Jethro Curtin, Lachlan Stuckey

Publisher:
Lyrics © Spirit Music Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

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