Testo Only a Customer - Jay-Z
Testo della canzone Only a Customer (Jay-Z), tratta dall'album Streets Is Watching
Uh-huh, ha ha
Roc-A-Fella y'all, nine-six
Futuristic shit, bee-yotch
Uh, what the fuck?
How we do, how we do
Uh-huh, uh-huh
It's the eventual triple platinum nigga with the solid gold fade
All that nickel and dime shit don't hold no weight
Forty-five, top five in the Forbes, you'll see
As you thumb through the Source, I read the Robb Report
Class C, hold me down with the plastique
That's all I ask of you like Raphael Saadiq
At the Hotel Nikko, Robert Duvall suite
My people's eyes through the peephole, I'm lovin' your down freak
As I shoot through the city like a rumor
Not soon enough to stop 'em from spreadin'
The newspaper heading reads "Jay-Z breathes, eighty degrees
Only thing to cool him off is a Malibu Bay Breeze"
Can't stop for the feds, say cheese
You know they wanna take a nigga picture, pray for the day to get ya
But I'ma parlay, stay richer for now
Jigga haven't done dirt in a while
You know my stomach's gettin' weak from
Livin' life on these streets for real
Tryna oversee it from suites, orderin' eats
At the top where the real criminal minds meet
That's where the cream is, right? That's
Where your dream is, well ain't it?
You're only a customer
When you're walkin' in the presence of hustlers
Spend money all night
Bitch, bee-yotch
(Roc-A-Fella y'all, ha ha)
You're only a customer
When you're walkin' in the presence of hustlers
Spend money all night
Roc-A-Fella
Yeah, ayo my youth had a nigga too aggressive
I, I used to speed excessive
Both eyes closed, no thought invested
Hittin' potholes, capos'll snatch away what you deem most precious
Had to rethink things, is pinky rings worth
Life on the run and time served in Sing Sing?
I don't know to tell the truth if I'm pressed for dough
Gotta consult Irv Gotti y'all (Heads got to roll)
I was raised to live, Lord I pray you forgive
If not, I just handle it like Jason Kidd
What you're facin' is officious (It's officious)
Most cases when I blaze I won't miss you (Won't miss you)
Case in point make bullshit a issue, I see it to the end
My writin' so personal, my heart bleedin' through the pen
Make no mistake about me
There's only one nigga livin', I got half a cake about me
I got love, I can kill a friend over fam, not drugs
And very few people understand that love
To make a nigga die bleedin' is nothin' (Nothin')
You make a motherfucker die breathin'
Then you're sayin' somethin', bee-yotch
You're only a customer
When you're walkin' in the presence of hustlers
Spend money all night
Roc-A-Fella y'all, ha ha
You're only a customer
When you're walkin' in the presence of hustlers
Spend money all night
Roc-A-Fella, uh-huh
You're only a customer (Yeah)
When you're walkin' in the presence of hustlers
Spend money all night
Roc-A-Fella
More flavor than y'all can imagine havin'
Graphic like Sega Saturn, traffic like the bodega
Just so happens you caught me at the tail end of my dirt
Brain ain't right from inhalin' the work all my life, fuck it
Greasy I had the whole D.C. high
Pissy off Cristal, was three G high
Seasoned Bacardi, VVS's blesses my body
We be fresh at the party, play yourself, go 'head
If you don't know the ledge, it's like spittin' to God
Get it in the face fuckin' with niggas over your head
Take your time with me, shifty
Used to make coke stretch like a sample in a 950
Shit with that while I'm on a Kawasaki bike
At the light doin' a pike with a bitch on the back
We'll take flight, my life like it was directed by Hype
In thirty-five slow-mo with the Roc-A-Fella logo
Acapulco to Aruba, Bay Breezes and caviar beluga
Very little loot eludes us
In the grayish-bluish L-E-X coupe
It's the root of evil in his people, what the fuck?
You're only a customer
When you're walkin' in the presence of hustlers
Spend money all night
Roc-A-Fella, uh-huh, uh-huh, bee-yotch
You're only a customer
When you're walkin' in the presence of hustlers
Spend money all night
Roc-A-Fella, uh-huh, uh-huh
Futuristic shit
Put a cactus in your ass, shut up
You stupid cunt, your breath smell like doo-doo, stupid-ass ho
Come here, suck my dick
Your breath smell like your butt
Stupid bitch
Get your ass stitched up so it look like a fat football
Stupid bitch
He said stitch your ass up so it look
Like a fat football, come here bitch
Stupid bitch
Stitch your ass up
Get the fuck outta here
And we makin' you walk home, bitch
Credits
Writer(s): Irving Lorenzo, Shawn Carter, James Ambrose Jr. Johnson
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