Jazzy

I got tinted windows on my ride
Baby what is it to you though
People say I'm old school
People say I'm true though
Really I'm just who know
Really I'm just new though
Carrying my whole team
I've never been a though
Trynna make change like titty boy
The two chains trynna ball out like Will
Gates and hoop dreams
Trynna ball out like Bill Gates, blue screens
I've been doing this since Deon
Had on hoop rings
Me and drunk and of cocaine
Mexicans homies getting at me
"What's up with you, man?"
I'm good everywhere care about nothing
If you know me well
Then you probably call me cousin
I speak for the betterment of people
I looked up to the projects
Yeah, that's some ironic shit
Girl, I was raised in the Bay by my mom
And shit, I did alright in school
Sometimes I made the honorlist
But, I'm finally doing what
The homies all expect
The real is on the rise
You can bet your fucking neck
Apache in this trigger happy world
With a bow and arrow
From this sweat on my back to my bone marrow
My home pharaoh i'm so thorough
I live out in the Brooklyn bro
When I'm from the Bay
Where everybody smoke the colour purple
We pass it to the left and
If they try to handle your dreams
I say f them the point of this song
If it had one would be i be back out my boys
Drinking 40s E
Getting spliffed in the streets
I probably piss on this tree
Remember poetry class
Thats where I turned into me and so they say
Love from the westside to your spot
2013 over the hill well we're
They call me Marc E
Sometimes Marc is too fine
Hit the nail right on the head
But with the nuance raised on that DooWop
Sly, Stone and Drizzy too real for the radio
They ain't fucking with me

(And then it go) all the girls tell me that
They love Count Bassy
1, 2, 3, 4, fuck you, pay me
All the girls tell me that
They love Marc E bassy
1, 2, 3, 4, fuck you, pay me
All the girls tell me that
They love Young Chachee
1, 2, 3, 4, fuck you, stop me
All the girls tell me that
They love Young Rippy fuck you, pay me

I'm so fucking critical of my shit
I don't need no give it all up
Please don't be a fucking cockblock
Blast off to Houston
We got a fucking problem
The captain of the ship is on one
I will never down one
But my girl be drinking from the fountain
She so bad but don't know how to come down
Baby relax, we don't need a fucking condom
All we need is money
I think we can solve these problems
My writing skills with this music
Shit are too good
Like how some rappers get signed
But don't make cause they too hood
My category is no boxes
Mandatory reefer, smoke and every mil is a
Like every whip is a drop top
Every sneaker is Chuck Taylor
Baby are you coming to my
My hotel look like cock rock renaissance
Bitches, weed, and drink
Weed and thought provoking monologues
Meditating naked on the hotel bed banking
When I'm waking it's apparently a
Vacancy sign above my head
They coming knocking but it's no-one home
It's a jazzy beat on
Hold on, let me write my song aw yeah-Aw-Aw