Ridin’ Shotgun

(Paul Wall Intro)
I go by the name of Paul Wall The People's Champ
And I'm pullin' down with my partna Papoose baby
They talkin' bout…

(Paul Wall)
Kick the door down, weighed Glock, bag the money, gimme all that you got
Than its back to the hood, fo a all night flight, tryin to slang a lick at the gamblers spot
All or nothin, win or lose, grind all day, no time to snooze
Stack o' cash, one dolla at a time, just earnin' stripes, and payin my do's
5-9, 5-8, South Lee, South Bake, Lil E, Big Mix, my partna Bowdy, pour up the drank
Getcha eagle on flip a bird, 16 deep can buy you a brick
Plus that clock go stone for stone, gram for gram, lick for lick
Ova night celebrity in the streets, bust a move feet to feet
Cut the corner, slide off in the wind, and its back to the block for a meet n greet
Where's the drank? Where's the dro? Where's the whip? Where's the blow?
Pop seal, pour a fo', fire up the piff, light n blow
I'm comin straight from dat Houston, Texas, I got the tech, who's next wit plex?
I do yo ass, like a garbage fest, I'll peal yo shell n snap yo neck
It's Paul Wall no need to explain, emerged from the game in a slab on swang
Sip the drank, take it straight to the brain, I'm fuckin' round with that Drama King

(Chorus) (Paul Wall & Papoose)
I'm on that 16 loop, down in that Houston baby
I'm on Atlantic Ave. hip hop, police hate me
I'm posted up, I'm toasted up, I'm getting mine, New York Times
The clock is tickin, time is money, partna its goin down

(Papoose)

You see folks, hit you wit the poetry notes, Flow league, low key, O-G's dope
The coke freak, dope feen, off a ski slope, talk to police, nope
Yo homies, no pito, the homey keep toast, turn ur ghostwriter to a holy ghost
Quick to pull a shank on the old ski coach, you can hokie poke
I drink so much, I cry liquor, wipe my tears wit c notes, I smoke so much weed, I fart weed smoke
I wonder a the moment she spoke, you know I like a woman with a mint coat n a deep throat
And ma I think your crazy if you don't deep throat, you serve no purpose like a slow speed boat
Im sworn to the hood, took the OG oath, the homies toast to the song P wrote (uh)
On this shit I don't need votes, you 'bout to getcha hood, pass me voc
You can't afford this ice, he broke,4-5, bitch 4-5-6 c-low
I smoke brown like my name nino, I'm Papoose, underground king no
Kiss the bling-bling ho, my ching-ching do'or let tha ding-ding go, like a sing-sing row, (uh)
Why ya'll talk wheezy, 'fore I, grip I, pull out the toasta, come back an kill em like Piper Sosa
Eat em like Pondarosa, touch em like Tony Toka, push range rova's wit shoulda, holdsta, this verse is ova

(Chorus)
I'm on that 16 loop, down in that Houston baby
I'm on Atlantic Ave. hip hop, police hate me
I'm posted up, I'm toasted up, I'm getting mine, New York Times
The clock is tickin, time is money, partna its goin down

(Paul Wall)

What it do, it's Paul Wall the people's champ, n dat boi Papoose
My pockets fat like bruise, bruise, cause I'm goin' hangin round do'ors spot like a noose
I'm goin' hard, on tha block, posted up like Jermaine O'Neal
If you scared take yo ass back home, turn on tha tube n watch Dr. Phil
Watch n learn, clock ???, no sleep just crash n burn
Paint tha slab, weigh tha trunk, bolted up, than bounce n turn
On Bay Bridge, wit tha undaground king, shakin bike logs, stayin afloat
It's tha Street Sweepers an tha Swishahouse, Paul Wall, Papoose dat's all she wrote

(Papoose)

Paul Wall n Papoose, we ride her, shortay in tha back, wit a back lookin proper
Face like a model, n a match wit da prada, little time n she mine, I'm time her
Popped in tha night, so I popped up beside her, popped 2 bottles, than I popped my colla
I didn't have a pen, she gave me eye liner, wrote her phone numba on a back of a dolla
She crumbled it up, n put it in her vagina, shortay was a turnt out freak like Madonna
Then I seen her friend lookin betta right behind her, took my dolla back matta fact, I'm a holla!
You nigga's is imposters, we eatin like we mobsters, Street Sweepers n Swishahouse, you fuckin wit some monsta's

(Chorus X2)
I'm on that 16 loop, down in that Houston baby
I'm on Atlantic Ave. hip hop, police hate me
I'm posted up, I'm toasted up, I'm getting mine, New York Times
The clock is tickin, time is money, partna its goin down