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Ballin' Outta Control

This song is by E-40 and appears on the EP The Mail Man (1994) and on the album The Element of Surprise (1998).

Pushed in the game at a young age
Feel me touch me as I turn the page
A little past ten, roughly about
My scratch is smellin sour and it's stinkin
Got a nigga seriously thinkin'
"How can I kill this odor, and purchase me a Lincoln?"
Minimum wage flippin patties - nope
I'd rather fuck around with Coca-Cola, yola
Ice cream, candy, granola, huh
Slave for men - that's what they told me
And I'll break you off somethin' suitable
Brought you a key of crack quicker than?
? Recoupable
? Future black and beautiful
My partners used to be plucked and ugly
Hangin' around them old squeegee boys
Man them the motherfuckers that have love for me
They straight cut for me
Deal me, touch me, L-O-V-E
I spits the shit from the T-O-P
It's me, the E, droppin' it nuclear all the time
Motherfucker comin' from the motherfuckin MIND
Fuck you niggaz, you think I sell my soul
But I'm way too cold, motherfucker!

Chorus: LeVitti

Sittin' in my livin' room
Thinkin' of, a master plan
Tryin' to find a way out
HOW TO STACH the scratch
So I painted me a picture
Of a life, to make a dream
Can you feel me now
Ballin outta control, ballin outta control

Fresh off the showroom flo', bought me a ninety-fo'
Now I'm havin' long money, like Ross Perot, so take
Notes from a big ol' ? pimp, pretty much established
Livin' out of hand lavish
Throwin' parties?
With big time folks makin' big time cabbage
Become a savage, get swoll by ones
Twenty a drum's established
Six figure digits, just like I tell you like
I got the whole city sewed up in stitches
Your product'll win if you gots top grade
Keep, your law-yers and your bail bondsmen paid
The word on the street's is that I done came up too fast
Motherfuckers want a piece of my soul
Playa haters wanna cut my grass
You don't wanna bring your bitch
To what type of ? out of control sittin' on tickets
Million dollar spots, technology chops
And a motherfucker proud fool-assed ridiculous
Straight fuckin' 'em up like that, throw me my strap man
? Feel me
Reverend would you put some blessin oil on my head
And hear me
I never sell my soul 'cause I'm way too cold
Motherfucker! Ballin outta control

Interlud: LeVitti

This ol' game, kids they run
Never get a second chance
So take me to this world
Now there's always time, to getcha
I guess by now you get the picture
Of what I'm tryin' to say
I'm ballin outta control

"Niggaz trippin' off me 'cause I was a young motherfucker ballin"
"Every other fuckin' day I'm tellin' my SOHABS OUGHTTA quit"
"Niggaz trippin' off me 'cause I was a young motherfucker ballin"
"We can get it on, we can get it on"
"Niggaz trippin' off me 'cause I was a young motherfucker ballin"
"Forty-Water, straight lettin 'em know"
"Even though my pocket's fat and my belly's bigger...
Gots to come Sic-Sic-Sic-Wid-It"

Throw, the WHOLE
UNIT in a big ass gumbo pot
Full stir
Let it settle to make it lock
Horse races, trips to Vegas, frequent flier
"Whassup you timah, when your ass gonna retire?"
I ain't knowin'
Keep tellin' myself that I'ma call it quits
But I got myself
Too much motherfuckin cabbage out there runnin' in the streets
Lookin' up out the way for the one-time
Po-Po Penelope seriously concentratin
Noided as I watch the back for all of my chemistry
Cause fools be playa hatin'
Lucrative spots and blows, investments bonds and stocks
Esquired land and crops, techno chops and glocks
Cause niggaz be tryin' to make movies
When they get all in front of these bootch ass hoochies
I be like poppin' the cap like a hungry mother
I ain't even gon' lie I'm to'
Twoasted, looped, to' back, souped
Plastered, puked, on the get back fully recouped
Fuck these niggaz they think I'll sell my soul
But I'm way too cold, motherfucker!

Written by:

Michael Mosley; Sam Bostic; Earl T Stevens

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