Correction Lyrics Int’l Players Anthem Tribute by Tobe Nwigwe

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Lyrics

Get Twisted Sundays
We back at it again
In honor of the legend
Ahem, look

My biggest problem is I don't believe the concept of in love
In college I was with Whitney, when she kissed me, I felt then the
Heavens had to send it upon me, so strongly
I was wrong, B, she came from the big apple, wrong tree
I kinda sometimes felt like that was God perfecting me
I got with Fat and lowkey she changed the trajectory
Of my vision, supernatural circ*mcision from selfish ways
I'm on a mission, but to be alive, I said I never felt this way
I have before, but this love thing just ain't no grab and go
You have to pour everything inside out, pray it don't hit the floor
Simple as that, this just ain't rap, this ain't fictional
They made dodie medicinal and made love seem conditional
But it ain't though, hell, really, it's perfection
Even if it's like Anthony Hamilton's beard, it come through in sections
The lesson, better yet the blessing is the fact that it's a choice
Perception in the wrong direction has the power to destroy
Your essence, check your reflection, make sure that it's cool
For your protection, learn yourself before you learn in school
That you inadequate, truthfully, I'm an advocate
For these savages chasing these objects that be inanimate
I wish that I could give them something way more tangible
It's hard to get your gift from God when both your hands is full
With all your pettiness, actin' Ed, Edd, and Eddy-ish
Lack of umbrellas always make raindrops fall down the heaviest
Stand under something then, hopefully, it'll help you understand
That everybody black on the inside like Folgers cans
Keep your kin bold, just be careful how you approach a man
Pigs can't smell the odor of slop to know they grosser than
Most people, but ain't no one picture perfect on easels
Don't hate nobody, be Godly, swear that poison is lethal
My cousin got out, got locked back up, that boy home, the sequel
That penal system got his penile gland smothered in fecal
Matter, I'm still squashing all the chatter though
Them thotties try me, I dodge the bull like a matador
Far as the baddest go, my quota way past the status quo
That's why Fat got my heart in the end like a Navajo
Or Arapaho, I got nasty flow
Tell wack rappers take a backseat, I'm they chaperone
From the back straight to the traps, that's where they have to go
No coonin', no metro, I'm boomin' 'til my casket close
I should rap some more, but I have to go
R.I.P., Ali, but I'm feelin' like Ca**ius though
Rope-a-dope then go for broke like hook and laterals
Holy mackerel, I murdered the International
Players Anthem

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