Joe Budden - Nba lyrics

Shoulda never put me on this beat

Okay, yeah, normal baller

We back on tizzy, on top

Jump Off, Dub B, Jersey

Stand up

GO!

Jump off you rap guys is a joke

I'm here to take the scoring title without the green light from my coach

Man, don't make me have to smack your lineup

I'm Michael Jordan y'all Harold Minor's that rap vagina

All black ski mask, gloves, tuck the thing

Drive slow, lights out like "I love this game"

I live this y'all paint that pic

And like Magic I'm starting to believe y'all dudes ain't that sick

Might see ya boy scooping up a bird to get knowledge

Number one draft pick and I skipped college

Snakes in the trenches I peep those, get injured

End up like Grant Hill on the bench in your street clothes

Talk about he real, how he quick with a glock

But like Kurt Thomas he ain't good for shit on the block

See the gleam from the shoes

Man, I don't mean to seem rude

Gunshots do you like Vancouver make your team move

(Let's Go!)

It's gone be the NBA never NBC (Yeah)

Rookie of the year slash MVP (Rap suckas, we back)

Never channel 4

We handle the 4

It's the number one draft pick (Yours truly)

Let your gat spit, nigga

Can't treat me like a sucka

Gather up your five, man meet me at the Rucker

Put the heat to you fuckers

Half Man-Half Amazing with a clip in my boot

My 4-5 will make you "Skip To My Lou", think about it

Understand when I was younger I was all on my own

So when I said 3-2 I wasn't calling a zone

Nice truck, nice house and chain

I car jacked you like Shaq shooting a three man get outta your Range

This is regular hood shit

I put Don Cheaney under the arm and show him how to make a good nick

If you wack, you need to probably write

Either that or quit it, throw in the chair like you Bobby Knight

I work damn hard

But don't think I can't rob

Can't pitch, I still handle the rock like Shammgod

Still hurt you cowards

Still see me merking them Prowlers

And know they still call me Dirk in Dallas

I'm that nigga

Man I kill lame queers

It still ain't clear

Never saving the tech like Bill Laimbeer

I got tools for rilly

With shells that make your temple hot and I ain't talking 'bout a school in Philly

I ain't a selfish player

Man, I help your weight up

Cuz only Riders in this game now is myself and Isaiah

Listen, you gettin dissed

While I'm screwing these miss's

I'm on cruise control you still moving your pivot

But I'll show you how mean this crook be

You and your dogs' like the Houston Comets, a team fulla pussy's

Creep

It ain't a game no more, it's a sport

If you ain't got heart to play then stay off the court

Game over!