Letra de Street Cred - Boldy James & Antt Beatz

(Feat. Antt Beatz)

(Antt Did the Track)

What up, gang?

Yeah

Been trying to keep my promise to put all my niggas on

I'm tired of being modest, been humble for too long

Gotta make competition, tryna keep up with the Jones

While niggas like me, I'm just tryna keep up with the phones

Flat Rock to Hamtramck, serving in a foreign

Slapboxing, still jamming, 30 A.M

AMG Benz, double parked it on the corner

Matchbox and bills, had to serve just to pay rent

Birdbathing, different socks and drawls with the same shirt

Counted out three hundred but was all in a days work

Can't perk, niggas mad at Blocks 'cause they ain't turnt

Drumroll on the fully, bump into a bullet face first

Aces wild out the deck 'til I pull a joker

And snatch the chain from around your neck, book him for his choker

Bloodclaat told me to smoke it over

He said "You must ain't ever had your mugshot on a wanted poster"

Fed bound with a open folder

These niggas tried to press the button on me so I kept that 'mote controller

Shit so poetic when I spit it, it's like spoken word

Real Concreature, teacher had to grade me on the curb

Now they label me "Kingpin" for standing on my word

We used to piece up, chip in and ante on the bird

Shedded tattoo tears, I know you overheard

Throughout the years this street shit been working on my nerves

It's gang time, 227, niggas know the verdict

I'm done giving niggas credit that they don't deserve

(Niggas finished)

All these overs and these extras, ghetto Steven Spielberg

Cut another edit, stunt double coming up on the exit

Behind the scenes with this movie clip, don't make me run the credits

A lot of action, you are now rocking with the Jackson

Been catchin' possum downtown like I'm Johnny Paxson

For my day ones, I'm quick to let that chopper stutter

Ayy Young, shit, that's like my big adopted brother

Fuck a pussy, go and tell me what I done done

If that nigga plug can't sell me what I done slung

All of the money to the family that I done brung

Real gritter, still can post on Bellevue without a gun

That's the least of niggas' worries when you from the trenches

How many niggas from your hood you know that touched a ticket?

Ain't gotta lie on my supply, ain't gotta front to kick it

Ghetto Olympics, from the hook I was jumpin' pickets

Shit so poetic when I spit it, it's like spoken word

Real Concreature, teacher had to grade me on the curb

Now they label me "Kingpin" for standing on my word

We used to piece up, chip in and ante on the bird

Shedded tattoo tears, I know you overheard

Throughout the years this street shit been working on my nerves

It's gang time, 227, niggas know the verdict

I'm done giving niggas credit that they don't deserve

Niggas ain't putting no work in for this shit

I had to grit this shit out

Yeah, nigga

What else?

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