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yung joc - don't play wit it lyrics

[yung joc]
what it is man (sup?)
yung joc, block entertainment
yeah, you wan’ know somethin? (what’chu wanna know n-gga?)
i’ma take this motherf-ckin time to let y’all n-ggas know
i’m tired of playin games.. i’m tired of playin wit’chu man
(preach on) y’all n-ggas comin up short on your money
your re-up sh-t ain’t right (nope, nope)
your grams off n-gga, get that sh-t right
(tell ’em shawty) let me talk to y’all

this ain’t make believe so why the f-ck is you playin
you better listen close to what the f-ck i’m sayin
cause really all it takes is a couple grand
like at&t i reach out and i touch a man
or i can let it go cause it ain’t nuttin man
but naw it’s the principle so f-ck what you sayin
e’ry dollar i want it, e’ry dime i need that
so when it’s time to break bread gimme no feedback (shhh)
cause you don’t want to p-ss me off
and i get to poppin like we poppin cristal
see i cain’t help it, that’s just how we get down
let off a couple rounds, turn your smile to a frown
yeahhh i know, you think i’m bluffin
’til i kick the do’ and the goons they rush in
lay down on the flo’ where you keep the c0ke in
you say “i don’t know” then your blood start gushin

[chorus 2x: yung joc]
i done told your -ss once (once) told your -ss twice (twice)
f-ckin with my paper, you’re f-ckin wit’cha life (wit’cha life)
don’t play with it {-blam-} don’t play with it {-blam-}
don’t play with it {-blam-} n-gga don’t play with it {-blam-}

[big gee]
here he come once again mr. murder man
smokin on the purple bad, pistol in my other hand
f-ckin with my rubberbands get your -ss murdered fast
chop you up and chop ya, then stuff ya in a duffel bag
ride wit’cha in the trunk ’til ya smellin bad
get your daughter after cl-ss, ride by sn-tch her -ss
i know a p-ssy n-gga owe me a couple stack
pop him like he never had, but the n-gga holdin back (nah)
i ain’t trippin now i’m lettin ’em p-ss, got that -ss
so i’m in the good, n-gga smokin like a thermostat
flashin h-lla stacks, pie n-gga pontiac
actin for these hoes with my money, what kinda sh-t is that?
i ain’t feelin that, pay me for my f-ckin pack
e’ry dime off e’ry zone, don’t gimme that (nah)
see it time for the chrome, go on pull it out
sad sunday service for the sucker in the parking lot

[chorus]

[yung joc]
better know the repercussions f-ckin with my dividends
yeah i got a hitman for the hitmen
leave your baby momma numb and i touch many fans
if ye ain’t tryin to see it i suggest you start prayin
all i’m sayin; don’t try to play me like i’m soft
treat you like mosquitoes when i skeet you with that off
that joc crawl blood, n-gga call me red cross
leave your wig leakin like you spilled spaghetti sauce

[repeat 2x]
f-ckin with my paper – ye ain’t right
i’ma send them gators – in the middle of the night
let ’em split your tater – in front your wife
no one can save ya – put out your lights

[chorus]

[voice speaking over chorus to end]
c’mon man
that ain’t how you do the sh-t bruh
out’chea playin with a n-gga money and sh-t
that ain’t the sh-t to be f-ckin with
it’s hard out’chea in these streets n-gga
f-ckin people f-ckin wit’cha
n-ggas rattin and sh-t
that ain’t what’s up dawg
it’s the big dawg diesel
yung joc in the building, ya heard me?

- yung joc lyrics

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