| Disc 1 | ||||||
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| 1. |
| 1:40 | 
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| 2. |
| 4:05 | 
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[Journalist]
(Journalist) Uh, Journalist, (idealist), and it's a journey (I'm the journalist) Urban wars (the flow) I don't fuck around Crazy World, Motown motherfuckers Uh, dream team (Idealist, and it's a journey, I'm the Journalist) I don't fuck around dunny Yo, aiyyo, right from the gate, dog It shouldn't be no type of debate 'Bout who's the nicest with a mic and a tape You know I'm bright in the waist When I'm shining up the pipe with an eight Before I leave you with a trifiling face If you got Salsbury I play Marbury Hit you with the handle Before I light you up like the wick that's on a candle Have your bitch watch shots ripping through your flannel Lower parts to your heart sticking to her sandals Journalist, but you can call me tupee splitter You sweeter than the bottom of your Kool-Aid pitcher You think it's just music you hear, I bust a few in the air While your lil' sister's doing your hair Still in your crib, one shot pilling your wig I blow out your face, while the chrome's still in your hair Too severe for a medical truck I could bet a few bucks They gon' probably have to shovel you up, what [Hook: Samples + and random DJ scratches] Idealist, and it's a journey, oh I'm the journalist The flow, (I don't fuck around) Uh, Idealist, and it's a journey, oh I'm the journalist The flow (I don't fuck around, dunny) [Journalist] See yo, I keep them business working, 'Till the wrists is hurting 'Till your shit ooze out like this detergent I still keep the chickens lurking Got bitches circlin' 'cause they see me in the whip with Erving I will show you a nina, If you don't think the hard-toe can turn your torso to a sprinkler Then I pull off in the beautiful cat, New Jag, no tints, I'm a beautiful cat 1-6, y'all know what we do to you, black All my niggas squeeze triggers 'til they cuticles crack If we got a full clip, we'll be sending you half Hole in your legs, give your calf a genuine draft Like the bottle of beer, then a minute you pass Tap your pockets, see how many Benzes you had Hit the stack, tell Carl Carl to send a few scags From my criminal staff from that cynical ave Machos mothefucker [Hook] [Journalist] See yo, I studied the block, so I got damn good methods On how to burn strips like I can cook breakfast You ain't stabilized, it help when your label rise Every time I turn around, your face in the cable guide To my rap books, you can find me shackled Blow out your shit, leave it in your Mommy's scrapple I could, kindly catch you, let the tommy clap you For you with more hoes than a Chinese apple You hit gasoline talk fast and lean Pop fly, and get left with half a wing Watch who you talking to get your glasses cleaned Before I be forced to empty out this magazine Barrels throwing out twenty like a Jack in Queens Leave you somewhere throwing up your last (?) Most of the week, you find Journ over in beats When it comes to the throne, homes, you just holding my seat, uh [Hook] |
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3. |
| 4:16 |
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| 4. |
| 4:13 |
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| 5. |
| 3:44 |
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| 6. |
| 1:13 |
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| 7. |
| 4:09 |
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| 8. |
| 4:03 |
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| 9. |
| 4:24 |
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| 10. |
| 5:04 |
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| 11. |
| 3:25 |
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| 12. |
| 3:21 |
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[Verse 1: Journalist]
Ay yo, its Journalist nigga even on my nicer days I heat you up spin you round, call me microwave Skate off like at an Ice Capade With the type of guage that bring the cops out like parades Leave your family in the triage, second guessin Graf artist, I'm good with sketchin weapons Leave emancipations for lacerations With bunks to gun a pump like I'm half Jamaican You know the flow fascinatin Nigga I'm so sharp, when I walk I scratch the pavement I aim this gat right for your ways Then I go to your mom's house to give her all types of bouquets Or I can paralyze half of ya You don't wanna see your kids laugh at ya When they see you peein through a catheter However you want it, you can have it your way Capital J, and never use a gat for display [Chorus x2: Journalist] When it comes to this shit here Y'all the type to sit there I'm soon to rock that road, crotched in the big chair Studded up crown with forty below wristwear Prove y'all clowns couldn't fuck with the flow this year [Verse 2: Journalist] Ay yo, heres a few promises Turn y'all to vomitters With different types of heaters if the waste got thermometers Niggas wanna climb with us Crazy World conglomerate Philadelphi dominant Comin through the monitors My chumps beat you like drums, quite severe Then I fuck around and follow up, just like the snear I don't think you in the right career Maybe you should go back to cross dressin and them tight brazeers Cause y'all niggas ride mine, worryin bout my shine Stay on the sideline and work with the pom-poms Throw some rounds throw your arm or confetti your sleve When I'm in town, the sheriffs and the deputies leave Nigga I ain't got respect for you please You ain't sittin on dough, you fallin off like sesame seeds Cause you can't bear pressure If you don't wear vestes Crime unit find you I hope they got air freshners [Chorus x2] [Verse 3: Journalist] Yo when the gat is in my distance I have you datin fishes Your wive tears drippin on your graduation pictures Clutch glocks and what not Rush spots, fuck cops I got enough shots to get cuz' block dustmopped When I stop the beamer Cock the neener Blood'll pour to the pavement like its Aquafina Come out on bail, fallin up the cops' subpeana Come back around, send more shots between ya Bullets burnin up your femur Turn into screamers From uppercut swings of the permanent leaner Cause the guns I squeeze 'em If I shoot 'em just once like James Ingram Watch his brains leave him I'll be shinin my toys 'til the lost boys You rather see me sit in the can like Altoids Ock, I'm on the block, gettin narcs annoyed Passin out rocks like the Sixers ball boy Its Journ! [Chorus x2] |
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| 13. |
| 4:29 |
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| 14. |
| 4:28 |
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