Don't Play Wit It (Featuring Big Gee) Lyrics

(feat. Big Gee)[Yung Joc]
What it is man (sup?)
Yung Joc, Block Entertainment
Yeah, you wan' know somethin? (What'chu wanna know nigga?)
I'ma take this motherfuckin time to let y'all niggaz know
I'm tired of playin games.. I'm tired of playin wit'chu man
(Preach on) y'all niggaz comin up short on your money
Your re-up shit ain't right (nope, nope)
Your grams off nigga, get that shit right
(Tell 'em shawty) Let me talk to y'allThis ain't make believe so why the fuck is you playin
You better listen close to what the fuck I'm sayin
Cause really all it takes is a couple grand
Like AT&T I reach out and I touch a man
Or I can let it go cause it ain't nuttin man
But naw it's the principle so fuck what you sayin
E'ry dollar I want it, e'ry dime I need that
So when it's time to break bread gimme no feedback (shhh)
Cause you don't want to piss me off

And I get to poppin like we poppin Cristal
See I cain't help it, that's just how we get down
Let off a couple rounds, turn your smile to a frown
Yeahhh I know, you think I'm bluffin
'Til I kick the do' and the goons they rush in
Lay down on the flo' where you keep the coke in
You say "I don't know" then your blood start gushin[Chorus: x 2] [Yung Joc]
I done told your ass once (once) told your ass twice (twice)
Fuckin with my paper, you're fuckin wit'cha life (wit'cha life)
Don't play with it (blam) don't play with it (blam)
Don't play with it (blam) nigga don't play with it (blam)[Big Gee]
Here he come once again Mr. Murder Man
Smokin on the purple bad, pistol in my other hand
Fuckin with my rubberbands get your ass murdered fast
Chop you up and chop ya, then stuff ya in a duffel bag
Ride wit'cha in the trunk 'til ya smellin bad
Get your daughter after class, ride by snatch her ass
I know a pussy nigga owe me a couple stack
Pop him like he never had, but the nigga holdin back (nah)
I ain't trippin now I'm lettin 'em pass, got that ass
So I'm in the good, nigga smokin like a thermostat
Flashin hella stacks, pie nigga Pontiac
Actin for these hoes with my money, what kinda shit is that?
I ain't feelin that, pay me for my fuckin pack
E'ry dime off e'ry zone, don't gimme that (nah)
See it time for the chrome, go on pull it out
Sad Sunday service for the sucker in the parking lot[Chorus][Yung Joc]
Better know the repercussions fuckin with my dividends
Yeah I got a hitman for the hitmen
Leave your baby momma numb and I touch many fans
If ye ain't tryin to see it I suggest you start prayin
All I'm sayin; don't try to play me like I'm soft
Treat you like mosquitoes when I skeet you with that Off
That Joc crawl blood, nigga call me Red Cross
Leave your wig leakin like you spilled spaghetti sauce[Repeat: x 2]
Fuckin with my paper - ye ain't right
I'ma send them gators - in the middle of the night
Let 'em split your tater - in front your wife
No one can save ya - put out your lights[Chorus][voice speaking over Chorus to end]
C'mon man
That ain't how you do the shit bruh
Out'chea playin with a nigga money and shit
That ain't the shit to be fuckin with
It's hard out'chea in these streets nigga
Fuckin people fuckin wit'cha
Niggaz rattin and shit
That ain't what's up dawg
It's the big dawg Diesel
Yung Joc in the building, ya heard me?
Songwriters
ROBINSON, JASIEL / CARTER, DWAYNE / SCOTT, MIGUEL / HARRISON, DARIUSPublished by
Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., WARNER CHAPPELL MUSIC INC, THE ROYALTY NETWORK INC., Royalty Network Song Discussions is protected by U.S. Patent 9401941. Other patents pending.