Crooked I - My Bitch (Week 16) [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Verse 1: Crooked I]
So many paths to take, I took the G road
Life is a game, I got the cheat code
Fuck cheap clothes, I'm Artful Dodgers
Gimme that parish, my style is beast mode
You think you it you're bank account fat
I fuck yo bitch, bank account that
Paper brown bags, my bank is out back
It's buried under the grass, I get paid without tax
I put momma in a Range Rover sport jeep
That's for ignoring pops when he said abort me
We was once poor but now we got more cheese
Short sleeve white tees, Cayenne Porsche keys
Whore please, ya'll know the business
You only fucking with me cause I push Benzes
Plus Im in your stomach when I'm dicking you
Like you pregnant with a baby and he's kicking you
Good dick bringing out the crazy bitch in you
It's true, that's what the magic stick can do
Have you following me to my house, acting all wild
Who's that peeking in my window? Brr-aow! Nobody now
I told the cops I thought a burglar was on the prowl
Since I'm rapping I gotta be nicer
But I'm acting just like Mekhi Phifer
Diss me and I'll Swiss knife ya
I met get hyper, let the sniper rifle strike ya
You got guns, I got weapons as well
My uzi might scream, mac-11'll yell
Got a rusty .38, send you directly to hell
That's my old school shotter, call him Kevin McHale
Ya'll niggas better exit right, don't get it backwards
Like the letters to dyslexic eyes, exercise
The guns better recognize, the tec electrifies whoever testifies
Put bread on your head, change on your brains every time
Got your mind on your money but my money's on your mind
When my money's on the line, I get nutty when it's time
Act funny with a dime, hit the dummy with a nine
I don't need a seance or Ouji boards
To know about to send your soul to go meet the lord
I'm choking niggas with a TV cord
License to Ill just like the Beastie Boys
Nigga, lot of dudes got money in this rap game
But they ain't really get their money out the trap game
All the shit you saying I can't respect it
Before you sold records your neck was naked
Your wrist was timeless just like my freestyles
My paper stretch long, call it The Green Mile
The street made my heart darker than Gotham
Crooked survived the hood, now it's harder to stop him
Even want to support you wack artists I'm dropping
But if I'm banging your shit then I'm part of the problem
I'm hearing rappers complain
Saying the industry got too many Bloods and Crips
Watch your lips, C.O.B., Crip or Blood bang your clips
Eastside in the sky and I'm out this bitch