Correction Lyrics Ain't Too Much To It by Statik Selektah

Featuring(s) : Ab-Soul, Bun B & Conway the Machine

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Lyrics

[Intro: Conway the Machine]
Statik Selektah
Look, look, look

[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
Raw in the pot, bakin' soda, I'm on my fourth box
Whip it 'til my wrist sore
Youngin' still wanna sniff more and kick doors
He don't wanna get rich, he wanna show you what his fifth for
I know why these niggas pissed off
'Cause my kicks twelve hundred, smellin' like cookies in the KITH store
Don't give a fuck a nigga 5'2" or 6'4"
I get ticked off, two-piece him and wire his jaw
A nigga violate, he gotta die, it's law
I make a G call and niggas get off
BAPE tiger, Wraith rider
Catch them niggas that was talkin' and burn 'em with AK fire
I don't know how bein' a runt feel
Knew he was already slumped, fuck it, I emptied out the drum still
Low top, the semis with the lock on 'em
Green light if you get the drop on 'em, Machine

[Chorus: Ab-Soul]
(Hah) 'Cause it ain't too much it (It ain't too much to it)
It ain't too much to it (It ain't too much to it) nah (Nah)
Lil' smoke, lil' fluid (Lil' smoke, lil' fluid)
It ain't too much to it (It ain't too much to it) nah (Nah)
It ain't too much to it (It ain't too much to it)
It ain't too much to it (It ain't too much to it)
If you knew better, then you'd do it (Bitch)
It ain't too much to it (It ain't too much to it) nah

[Verse 2: Bun B]
Started hustlin' durin' Bush Sr., got rich by Obama
Ran up in them traps with them straps like they came for Osama
So when the pressure got applied, we ain't run from no drama
Just give us what we came for, or get the stick to your—
Now, look, man, I am a gangster, not a criminal or a crook, man
And I can take it hard or soft, 'cause I can cook, man
So when the king gets killed and only the rook stands
I'll be knockin' on your door for your bread like Bookman
And you'll be Florida, so come on outside into this corridor
And give me that paper or meet the coroner
I ain't warnin' you, you know my modus operandi
Just give up the damn pie or you, him, and your man die
And I ain't takin' it from you, you finna give it to me
'Cause the only way that you leavin' here livin' is through me
Now matter fact, take off the jewelry and the shoes
I need that iced-out Cuban link and them Chicago 2s, now run it

[Verse 3: Ab-Soul & Westside Gunn]
Ayy, man, I ain't gotta do shit but stay Black and die
Tryna get rich as a motherfucker and stay Flygod (Boom, boom, boom, boom)
I'm from the Westside, guns are like eyeballs (Grr)
Let's face it, there's always a couple round like datin'
Unc' had the six-tres on Daytons
He used to specialize in beatin' cases
Detectives pull up, no prints, no gloves
Just a John Doe and a pair of Gary Paytons
Good times
If y'all ballin' then I'm on the wrong court
You David and Goliaths only five-foot-nine
But you ain't bring your slingshot this time
So you don't want a problem at all, lil' guy, nah
That's how the fuck you make a long story short
No need to read between the lines
Don't be a slave to a clock
Bust it down or keep it Plain Jane
In time you'll find
It'll all come back the same thing
Just watch
One minute you circlin' the block
Niggas catch you off your square
The next minute, you in a box

[Outro: Ab-Soul]
Oh, the beat really stopped
I-I kinda needed a snare, or, or another one of them kicks
Or somethin', somewhere right there
What's up with this nigga Statik, man?
Ayo Jimmo, ay, ayo Jimmo, let me hear that shit back real quick
(This nigga Soul really retarded, man)

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