j.r. writer – intro lyrics
[verse 1]
get it clear — hater, i’m here
still standing, welcome to the tape of the year
haze in the air, i done turned it up another notch
bulbs in my ear, i done turned it up a couple watts
at the motherf-cking spot — not the “motherf-cking spot”
but your mother’s f-cking spot, with the b-tter in the pots
i don’t know why i come across humble when i’m not
might have lost a couple rocks, but i’m up a couple blocks
suckers need to stop, give me a break
since ’07 i’ve been getting six figures a tape
while you get what you take; i’m a bit overweight
picking pounds up like i’m trying to get into shape
hundred grips in the safe, that’s something you know nothing ’bout
so get in your place — my bad, i mean your mother’s house
huh, i laugh; put up the right cash
and these corns want beef, i’mma crush ’em like hash
the hottest you know; you gotta be slow
i’m still standing, nothing like the monica show
the dips split, and they wondering which side i’mma go
but i don’t pick sides, and the game’s not to be told
i don’t switch sides, man — the game’s got to be sold
i’m gonna let the dip fly until they can’t fly anymo’
no, ain’t no one iller; what up, k!lla?
ain’t speak about two years but what up, n-gga?
i’m still j.r., a.k.a. a.r
b.k.a. “who are you? you ain’t on my radar”
get it? this my play-yard, and i don’t want these p-wns around
play hard, i play you out — listen, this my stomping ground
i want the crown even though that i’m a champion
you still buying champions; sh-t, i’m from lionel hampton
130th, burning piff with the burner grip
i don’t need a burner to murder this — i just murder it
i know you heard i’m sick, or if not, you heard i’m sick
and yeah, the flow from outer sp-ce, but i’m earthing this
how you sold grams? you ain’t never served a brick
it’s like you got no hands — you ain’t got a bird to flip
i’m from the murder strip, hood life shady
nah, i wasn’t born a rapper — the hood life made me
but lately, i’ve been in the hood like crazy
put red marks on your head, you’ll look like baby, baby
i am great, skipping on the race
730, but what i meant it’s twenty minutes late
n-ggas reckless, give the kid a break
scott tissue records, i’m sh-tting on your tapes
but hey, i’m still lamping, lex with the grill dancing
still scrambling cause yes, i’m a real champion
of course, come mess with a real cannon
you thought i fell off, well welcome to still standing
writer!
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