Quit Hatin' the South (feat. Charlie Wilson & Willie D)

Uh, it's really goin' down in the South, bitch

Yeah, ****

We know hip hop and rap and all that shit

Started in the muthafuckin' East

Know what I'm sayin'?

Then it went to the West Coast

And they did it a little bit better

Know what I'm sayin'?

But now it's our time to shine down here, ****

Know what I'm sayin'?

So since y'all **** keep sayin'

We ain't real hip hop down here

We don't wanna be down with you bitch ass ****

So y'all stay up there with that bullshit

This country rap tune down here, ****

Young Pimp, Young Bun

Underground Kingz

All the OGs that's recognizin' the real

I got love for y'all

But all you bitch ass ****

Talkin' down in your records

You can eat a dick

Hold up

Pushin' cocaine, servin' pounds of weed

(Pounds of weed, pussy ****)

Steady, stayin' on the grind

(Steady grindin', stay in the studio, ****)

Pussy **** can't say he ain't hatin' me

(I know he hatin' me, bitch, hold up)

'Cause if he did, then you would be lyin'

(Hold up)

How in the hell am I supposed to respect the man?

(I ain't respect him, I ain't respect him)

They talk down on every song

(I hear you talkin' down, ****)

Ya still actin' like a bitch and steady cryin', yeah

(Stop cryin', bitch)

Say my name, pussy ****, and we can get this shit on, on

Quit hatin' the South, baby

We gettin' paper in the South, gettin' money

Quit hatin' the South, baby

Quit hatin' the South, hold up

Well, it's been a long time, my ****

I shouldn't a left you

Without the real trill shit to go left to

Got a lot of respect, fool

For the ones before me

But when my time came

They act like they ain't know me

I been down with rap music

Since Cold Crush and Melle

Before MTV put Run-D.M.C. on the tele

Back when Whodini tried to tell ya about ya friends, ****

I was givin' rap all my time and my ends

Bought damn near every record that motherfuckin' dropped

West Coast gangsta music, East Coast hip hop

Now it's our time to shine and the tables is turned

Them motherfuckers aggravated 'cause we gettin' some burn

There's no room for everybody, just a few **** swole

(Why is that?) Prolly 'cause they favorite rappers ain't in control

But just let go of the past 'cause it's hurtin' your hands

And pass it over to the next generation of fans

And quit hatin' the South

Hey, we gettin' paper in the South

Gettin' money

Quit hatin' the South, baby

Quit hatin' the South

Hold up, I'm blastin' off on you hoes like NASA

You double standards and hypocrisy, remind me of Massa

We ain't good enough to eat at ya table, but when ya dick get hard

You wanna run up in our broads

I'm from the ghet-toh, but I'm still clockin' figures

Bitch, ho, cock suckin' ****

And that goes for all you visitors too

If you don't like it down here, get the fuck on, fool

They say you can't rap and they questionin' our intellect

Friendly ass **** jumpin' bad on the Internet

Anybody typin' that much can't be a danger

Catch you in person, bitch, I'll break yo' fingers

It's some trash in the South, but I promise you

From the East to the West, some of y'all garbage too

As long as the beat knock and the lyrics hot, son

I could give a rat's ass where a rap is from

I remember N.W.A. and P.E.

Had me feelin' like a rapper was the thing to be

You can't fuck with Willie D, UGK either

Disrespectin' the code, jealous motherfuckers neither

Quit hatin' the South, hey

We gettin' paper in the South

Gettin' money

To all the radio, T.V., and even the press

That's been hatin' on the Sizz-outh like we ain't fresh

Y'all think we came here to play?

Say man, we came here to stay

Y'all shoulda listened to Andre, bitch, we got somethin' to say

And all you washed up rappers, you ain't what it's about

I see y'all tryna rap like us and puttin' grillz in your mouth

Y'all buyin' that beat like you bouncin' and twerkin'

But ho, we know what's goin' on, and bitch, that bullshit ain't workin'

I'm a OG rock ball, write my name up on the wall

Fuck yo' bitch and hit the switch and put my dick up in her jaw

I'm Sweet Jones, fucked a clone, legend on the microphone

Player's choice, silky voice, keep yo' bitch's pussy moist

I bump that Screw, that's how I do

Sippin' drank, bitch teen like

In Benz, big blue lens

Knock his bitch and fuck with her friend

Candy cart and squeeze 'em out

Bought the ranch, man, fuck the house

And y'all still gotta buy y'all dope from us

So what the fuck you bitch **** talkin' 'bout?

All you ol' sensitive ass ****

Know what I'm talkin' about?

Y'all **** on y'all period up here, bitch

Know what I'm talkin' about?

Y'all hidin behind the email addresses

Sendin' that bullshit through the air, bitch

Say my name, bitch, I'ma come to your house

Fuck how you feel, country rap tunes, ****

They put all y'all records on one side of the store

And put all the country rap music on the other side of the store

And see who sell out first

Bitch ass, ****

It's ya own fault ya shit ain't sellin'

You reap what you sow

Fuck ya in ya pussy

Keep talkin' that shit them gladiators

Gon' come get you too, partner

All ready, UGK for life

Fuck how you feel about it, bitch