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Club Scene

This song is by Shyheim and appears on the album Manchild (1999).

You want lessons?
It's to get with it, we out nigga
Come on!

(Shyheim)
I came into the party with my fly Wu-Wear shit on
Two hundred in, my teeth flex, gotta throw my hit on
Movin through the crowd with my shines hangin' out
Hit the bar, for a Henney straight, no chaser
Guzzle it down, honies crowdin around the Killa Bee
Buy you a drink, you kidding? Love, you got to be
Since you on my dick, won't you buy me a drink?
Chewin my ear off, tellin' me that she met me in the rink
I don't get tricky, got too much G
Got a degree in P.I.M.P-alogy, acknowledge me
Not a playa, teach these niggas how to be, I'm [?]Wallabeeneny[?]
Thugs throw it up, every time they see me
I hollow back, "Where the bats at?"
Baseball fitted hat, 7-1-8ths, New York Yanks'
She was Miss Elliot Trace, from her shoes to her face
With a body just like a Ferrari shape
She asks me, "How you get that cut on your face"?
That's when the DJ shouted out, "Shyheim's in the place"
I was high off the notion and case
It must have been her birthday 'cause she was holdin' mad cake
Her man holdin' no weight
He low-budget, she told me we was fluckin
We with two of her friends and three of her cousins
We in the corner whinin, my whole team's shinin
It's time to go when these fake rappers start rhymin
For real son

You know the club scene, 7-40, I beam
You know the club scene, big icy links and minks
You know the club scene, fuck around and get shot
You know the club scene, niggas spend all they got
You know the club scene, shorty, she lookin' hot
You know the club scene, niggas be on Bra'
You know the club scene, you better tuck your watch
You know the club scene, we flossin in the parkin lot

(Shyheim)
There's a party goin' on, down the blizz-ock
In this little hot box, but you might get shot
'Cause there's a lot of Knuckleheadz, who'll be playin' this club
A hole in the wall, I got my gun in, ain't searchin at all
I watch you hand-to-hand niggas, that be tryin' to ball
With your little ghetto-fame, Tech to snatch your chain
They used to call him Killa, now Got-Murdered his name
I smack Earth, Wind and Fire out lames
Take money, thuggin' ain't a thing
I got my drink in my right hand, left hand in my pants
I don't dance, just be loungin in my B-boy stance
Respect my gangsta, move like an army at war
Spit some Willy in the air, and we slid out the door
About a quarter to 4:00, jumped in the 4x4, smooth like velour
Say no more, every party I go to, I bring a bird home
Call me Cabosa Indiana Jones

(Shyheim)
I had this show O.T., at this venue called Ritz
I was rockin' the mic, when I noticed this bitch
She was lickin' her lips and her rubbin her tits
I can tell that she stripped, I had to politic
But she was with this achin bitch, Alienation bitch
Throwin' peanuts in my Jif, makin' me sick
Etcera, etcera, I'm liable to get rid of her
I don't give a fuck
Took her in the bathroom, picked her up in the tub
I'm like a drug, I be stalkin the club
Ladies beware, eighteen and above, what?
I'm a heart-breaker, the mind-raper
That don't spend no paper and don't like bitches that wear makeup

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