Cali Agents - This Is My Life Lyrics

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Artist:	Cali Agents
Song Title:	This Is My Life
Visits:	765

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[ VERSE 1: Rasco ]

It be the raw rhyme spitterm, no glitter with no glam

I can still turn out your whole jam

It's nothin but fam up in the spot, nigga, ready or not

And if you wanna see us play, put a buck in the slot

We got dangerous plots

Schemes and big dreams, big money themes

I need just to feed my seed

No greed involved, but I still stand tall

Be spendin yo time up at the goddamn mall

Doin things that don't mean shit

Still lookin for tail, I'm lookin for my checks in the mail

Without fail we bring it back to its original form

Been doin this before you young cats was born

Hated in my own backyard, what kinda logic is that?

These niggas mad cause I'm bringin it fat

In fact, I'm never broke, never blowin the smoke

But when I'm standin in the crowd, they be knowin the quotes

It's like, how in the hell do these cats even sell?

Be spittin big words your ass can't even spell

Stars and quasars, a hundred and ten bars

Of pure rhymes, I'ma tell you one last time

My rhyme's elite, give me 265 feet

I might leave niggas sprawled in the street

When you spit yours, the shit didn't sound right

And now it's because you didn't lay it down right

Cover your folks with all the chronic weed smoke

You just found out that Ras didn't need folks

I do it myself, I keep cash at the spot

Be up in your face, whether you like Ras or not

[ CHORUS ]

This is my life, I gotta live it

And if you cats really

Don't know we gotta let y'all feel it

It's never the same

You know we gots to maintain

We figured you out, we know your whole damn game (2x)

[ VERSE 2: Planet Asia ]

Yo, bon voyage, load the track as we take off

I break off with explodin facts you can't shake off

Experiment in Cali, I rep the Valley up to Central

Hoes, flows, big dough and smashin rentals

Cross the country like young guns bustin at you outdoors

These backpack niggas don't even know what they out for

Frontin like they don't want cash

Every since I made my first g I knew I had to make shit last

I write rhyme for rhyme, line till my mind got elaborate

A complicated torturous arrangement on my tablet

I'm hard-fisted, on some smoke-a-cigar-split shit

Straight out the yard district, here to leave scars inflicted

On your wack-ass production, the way we freak beats is unique

You feel the heat just like a backlash or somethin

I write fast but think slow, I keep my cash wrinkled

Yo, catch me blowin grams in Amsterdam at Paradiso

Pullin notches, and not only do we rock fresh gear

But when it comes to hip-hop, we like a breath of fresh air

Like yeah, and just to let y'all side-busters know

We rep the underground, but still we out to make dough

Know what I'm sayin?

[ CHORUS ]

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