C-Rayz Walz - Guns and Butter [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Intro: C-Rayz Walz]
The loca. Caliente. Hey, god. (Rich, rich). R'Thentic. C-Rayz. Guns and butter!

[Verse 1: C-Rayz Walz]
Go back upstairs. Eat your mac cheese and fish sticks
You not 50—you gon' die tryna "Get Rich"
I spit sick—my lungs' disease is from Asia
My LP's a "Funcrusher" too—my Fantasia's
Roy Jones, knock opponents out and ball too
I'm a MC! (Yo!) What the fuck they call you?!?
Pussy. My grammar's truth, y'all
You wanna be a player just to dive for loose balls
Dickhead, come out your face, say somethin' slick
My lines get all up in your ass like your uncle's dick
That chick said you're a small piece of wood
Stuck in her fingertip—(Huh?)—little prick!
You ain't even on my son's level—he just a little sick
This ain't really nuttin', devil—it's just a little bit
Illegitimate trip through my scenic path
If I really spit, the kids would hate English class
Do the math—my science will blow up your lab
Slow up your staff. I laugh at your arts and crafts
You ass, smelly socks and jocks—gym trash
Drag back those who study honies with [drab bags?]
Son you, have your moms yellin', "Hey, they bagged dad"
Come through, bomb you like schools in Iraq
Dumb dude. Fact: you fiction. Stop you spittin'
Raps collapse your ear where wax'll stack. Listen
Drum tap, young cat, old vision, soul glisten
Gun clap, one-track mind, rhyme, whole-rhythm creatin'
Instead of waitin', refrain from thought patterns
Of your dame givin' me crazy brains like horseradish

[Hook: Natural K.A.W.S. and C-Rayz Walz]
Get those props, follow my light
Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice
We in the year with a token ending, swollen sentence
Off the chain like a stolen pendant
Get those props, follow my light
Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice
In the gutter where suckers'll cut ya, mothers'll hug ya
It all comes down to guns and butter

[Verse 2: C-Rayz Walz]
I already seen a mill'/Amil, but you ain't even heard me yet
She moves well without the Roc like the Jersey Nets
You can't get in the game, your position is lame
Stay on the bench—enjoy the wood, you Marc Twain character
I'm holdin' back! So I won't melt the polar caps
So good off the top, my hairline's growin' back
I make sense/cents now. I'll make dollars later
Holla, hater. Catch a scratch from the Cut Creator
These is Reebok lines—they supposed to be pumped
And get your smoke for free like promotional blunts
Your style standard. My style is simply candid
I don't jerk off no more—I came empty-handed
Honeydip said, "You spit like you sprayin' a clip"
And wipe my mouth off with tissue—I be sayin' some shit
So you can stack cracks, clap gats, or rap
We where the wild things are and it's a fact I max
Subtract the whack. Now divide the stacks
Multiplied by the feel of the real and I'm back
And my DAT contains the masters, so I maintain disaster
Polly with NASA, master tracks
Anything less than that? I'm bridgin' the gap
Like African tribes, I got pussy sewed up—it's a wrap
But if it's that deep, dap me—clap me too
I fear none of you characters, like Scrappy Doo
"C'mon, put 'em up!" Make the rumors greater
My name's fate—we gon' meet up, sooner or later
Give you fools Juelz like a Santana verse
And wreck the beat 'til your bandana burst

[Hook: Natural K.A.W.S. and C-Rayz Walz]
Get those props, follow my light
Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice
We in the year with a token ending, swollen sentence
Off the chain like a stolen pendant
Get those props, follow my light
Spit so hot. Last week, I had to swallow my ice
In the gutter where suckers'll cut ya, mothers'll hug ya
It all comes down to guns and butter

[Outro: C-Rayz Walz]
This is crazy, boy. Yeah, we cray, yo. Yo, no doubt. Guns and butter. That boy love that breast. That's what's up. We gon' keep all of that too. Yo!