I Don’t Give A Whut (I Don’t Give A F... Part 2) (Radio)

Big Kwam ft. 2Face (A-Butta & L-Swift) - “I Don’t Give A Whut (I Don’t Give a F… Pt. 2)”
[Emcee(s): Big Kwam]
[Producer(s): Mr. Mayhem]
[Hook/Additional Vocals: 2Face (A-Butta & L-Swift)]

[Intro: Big Kwam]
Yeah, one, two, one, two (Yeah, yeah), you know how I do (No doubt, no doubt). Big Kwam on the remix by my man Mr. Mayhem. (Word up) Word up! L-Swift, A-Butta in the house (True). Check how I turn it on out (Check it, check), know’m saying? Check it out, check it out, check it out now. Check it out, check it out, check it out (Check it out, check it out, check it out). Yo, yo

[Verse 1: Big Kwam]
By now, y’all should know the stats. Kwam melt the wax
Hard-rocks react with hand claps, keep the jam pack
Now I’ll monopolize hi-hats for youths to
Supply cracks for dough stacks, running with live cats, yo
Kwam will leave battles unscathed regardless of
Gun sprays. On Sundays, I’ll toast you like you sunbathe (Ch-blao!)
Plus my steez don’t revolve around copping pleas
On enemies, with intense degrees, when I dispense with ease
Lacerate s**t (What?), I blast a jake’s s**t. (What?) Like earthquake (What?)
Split (What?) the earth surface (What?) quick (What?), I disperse your clique (What?)
So feel the pent-up fury of a mooley
Who’s moody enough to cuff your hand without a judge and jury (Uh huh)
Metamorphic rap cocoons’ll hit n****s with
Shrapnel wounds, gun-clap platoons and put them back in tombs
Word to Moses, bringing careers to closures (Uh)
With lines that disposes (Uh) of all the characters and posers (Uh)
Whose heart ain’t in it while the god printed rhymes
That limit the nicest to a b***h with his ego dented (Oh yeah)
I got raw skills that’s sharper than sawmills
A Rotten Apple’s core still about who got more bills, yo
Some bless me with the SP so I can stress the
N****s who got me at Boiling Point like Wesley
I’ll milk beats ‘til they’re left redundant, only to be
Funded by the blunted who come to my shows in the hundreds
Visualize what my mind has drawn, my mental be
The womb with which rhymes is born, it’s on when I leave my tomb

[Hook: A-Butta, (L-Swift), and {Big Kwam}]
Big Kwam, get on the mic, son, and self-destruct. (Why?)
{I don’t give a f**k! What, what?!? Duck now!}
(You’re coming through grilling and your ass gets stuck). Why?
{‘Cause I don’t give a f**k! What, what?!? Duck now!}

[Verse 2: Big Kwam]
Check it
I display moves that slay crews without the
Assistance of tools, I break fool and enslave grooves
Kwam extra lethal, never sweats the feeble (Why?)
My cerebral evil (True!), trust there’ll be no sequel, son (Aight!)
Deadlier than a Sensei’s boots. Brave
Recruits flew the coup when I bomb s**t like Babe Ruth
‘Cause they know, when the man drop like Arabian sands
Hot, brothers fry, puff more Thai than Bangkok
And every paragraph is triggered by smoke. I figure:
Why provoke a rap quote that make n****s gasp and choke?
I’m holding cliques at ransom, money grip my anthem
Trife like 25-to-life, b***h, with Manson
I’ll leave domes split like chapped lips. BBS
Chrome and fat whips attract chicks when I mack s**t
But Kwam ain’t the one for y’all to herbing (Nah), you
Blood-sucking vermin just get stuck until your coochie’s burning
See, I’m hip to the game, plus I rip through your frame
So maintain. I get personal like name-chains
I hold the mic like a tight clamp to get hype, champ
When I’m amped, more s**t jump off than bike ramps
From stages to street corners, I defeat performers
All the weak are goners when the Kwam bring more heat than saunas
I keep a low profile like the Masked Avenger
Dismember contenders, leave ‘em crushed like car fenders

[Hook: A-Butta, (L-Swift), and {Big Kwam}]
Big Kwam in ‘96, son, about to blow up. (Why?)
{‘Cause I don’t give a f**k! What, what?!? Duck now!} (Ayyo)
(I’m not from Milwaukee, but your ass’ll get Bucked). Why?
{‘Cause I don’t give a f**k! What, what?!? Duck now!}

[Interlude: Big Kwam]
What, what? To all my cheddar-scooping n****s. What, what, what?

[Outro: Big Kwam]
Blindside Records get the money, y’all
F**king Juliano get the money, y’all
To my man Si: get the money, y’all
To my brother Jay: get the money, y’all
Big Twan, uh, get the money, y’all. To my man
A-Black: get the money, y’all. To my nigga
Terror—what?—get the money, y’all. To my Fulham
Clique—what?—get the money, y’all. To my man
Sticks—what?—get the money, y’all. We roll too
Thick—what?—get the money, y’all. Get the
Money, y’all. ’96, get the money, y’all
For real, and I’m out