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Gutta Butta

This song is by Goodie Mob and appears on the album Still Standing (1998).

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Yo, we gon do it like this
Straight out the parts that they disregard
Never considered, ok

Now don't get mad, nigga get glad
Goodie got them brand new trash bags, dag
And they know where to dump that ass
In the chair
The hoochie river with the rest of the kids

That did business outside la familians
Gettin ya touched down the cut
Blunts roastin whole through tea bags
Blowin bubbles out the wrong end
Mud in your stool piles
Flamin hotter than Dust Valley

The gateway to where ever your sick tickle desire
The gangsters of this other century
Transforming hustlers and players into sissies
So slim goodie
You don't want no drug boy
He'll leave you barefooted and pregnant

Don't get too comfortable
You ain't gon' be here too long
G's get locked up and die (clean)
Most lie in they own surreal home
Trust the tree on the map

This one individual thought he was the Grim Reaper
Swole, couldn't nobody put a finger on his naps
Now he up under the bridge stankin'
In his birthday suit
Used to always holler about how he was gon do a brother (get him!)
Beat him to the punch-line, one time

Being forced into early retirement at the age of 26
Palms feel like bricks, peeling from distributing crack
Crumb snatchers and goo-gobblers struggle
To stay on top of sand dunes
'Cause mouths born with silver spoons

Make your bed you gotta sleep in it
But stakes made
Baking soda kept the knees clean
Narrow like a ravine
Digits fell good news
Last hole, green jacket worn, body in two
Left by oh-no

Soul been gone, disappeared like the dune
Once the temperature rise
But I'm with my Lawd (lord)
?Please grits, still ship
Half the pipes are gettin sold out convienience stores
Where ya at now?
Comming around trying to sniff out sounds

Well rounded kept you strictly grounded for your ear
The dogs are gettin closer to the clues now can you hear?
I smell fear and even if your eyes was closed
Your ass couldn't catch your tear

Lies, straws, mirrors and plates
Nicks, dimes, fifties and cakes
Why can't I escape
These lies, straw, mirrors and plates?

In the land of jacks I got my acts over the tracks with stacks
Upon the map in the vault
Where this cat's trying to sniff me out
I'm in the southwest woods working all about

Paper capers, never hurt them brothers to obtain
If I can't refrain 'cause some of these niggaz snortin' cain
And really don't know which way to go
Confused, you'll abuse anybody for a fix

Hits go for ten bucks, go for 20 and they good and plenty
Fat baggies like ?Maggies? muffin
Where the kid do the stuffin'
Sick of these young niggaz watching me
As I turn figures into solitare
Twirl up my hair (down south)
Pray to God I don抰 have to do him
Like I never knew or had no clue to who you was
Cuz, face to face with a scar engraved upon his left cheek
So to speak
I move like a icon when it was done to approach my mosse
Be on that Rossie like The Click
So I stay ready for combat and watch the rich get rich off it

Lies, straws, mirrors and plates
Nicks, dimes, fifties and cakes
Why can't I escape
These lies, straw, mirrors and plates?

Nigga I ain't shit, I just know how to rhyme a little bit
Nigga please, I'm still trying to squeeze my fat ass in where I fit
Now I got a little dough, but it ain't that much mo
than every other nigga I know
We all still po

I don't sell dope (what you doin?)
I sell hope
You wanna size me up my nigga then wear a scope
'Cause you gon see me on MLK and on T.V.
I ain't got no fear, my nigga I was born to wait right here

Late one night I was in a pearl white Acura Legendary
I got that thang with me 'cause it's necessary
Shit, I was just ridin'
Wasn't even thinkin' 'bout collidin
But I kept seeing the same headlights running stop signs and red lights
I don't prepared myself to die if it's my time to go
He said "you know what it is, you done seen it before"
This sad, of course I'ma be mad
Well here you can have it god damnit if you want it that bad

You would try to take from me, my nigga I ain't no star
I value both of our lives more than this car
You lucky nigga, I used to be you
Shit and I'd bust a hole in your chest somebody could see through

Now remember, shit, you could've died tonight
And I would've been in the right
I ain't even pissed you could just drop me off at the house
'Cause I ain't really dying by nothin like this
Everythang cool my nigga, you could just drop me off at the house

Written by:

Robert Barnett / Patrick Brown / Thomas Burton / Cameron Gipp / Willie Knighton / Ray Murray / Rico Wade

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