Topeka Blvd by Stik Figa and Rob Viktum Lyrics
[Intro]
Broadcasting live (oh yea!)
It's Stik Figa, MANE!
[Chorus]
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
[Verse]
See, I'm a rap cat, never been in the streets
Feet walk the same turf where niggas shoot at police
Know I got to keep it black like I'm Senegalese
Bite down like a pit when it's dinner to eat
In advance, not a fan of rappers I'm better than
Where I stand in these Vans competition ain't got a chance
Heard you plan to fail well then you're failing to plan
At a glance plant my flag all over this great expanse
I'm the greatest rapper, breathing or decomposing
Reanimate the corpses kill them and bring them roses
Scribbling the ether speak it then leave them frozen
And once the smoke clears they then believe I was chosen
Molded by the west side hard to digest
Got its pitfalls but I had to sidestep
Peace the east side and my guys in Hi-Crest
But I'm dope like what ya whip inside the Pyrex
[Chorus]
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
[Verse 2]
See, this is hip-hop, no Glock, we got budgets
Never poked or popped nothing I'm saying I'm not fronting
Grinding for knots, whatever in spots hustling
Mama said 'don't cry, even when you chop onions'
Where they pitch lift off on the block they not budging
Standing in flip flops might dislodge something
Sharing sick thoughts flaws all for the public
Retired from mood music, my name is Joe Budden
When in reference to me please use excellency
More difference between us than six separate degrees
Like menu delicacies and the checks that you keep
Nothing comes between my bread except for lettuce and cheese
Why try to compete when you lie on the beat
Code of silence you violate coincide with the streets
Voice will keep your lady soaked let her dry on the beach
Still trying to get burn like its lye on the beat
Broadcasting live (oh yea!)
It's Stik Figa, MANE!
[Chorus]
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
[Verse]
See, I'm a rap cat, never been in the streets
Feet walk the same turf where niggas shoot at police
Know I got to keep it black like I'm Senegalese
Bite down like a pit when it's dinner to eat
In advance, not a fan of rappers I'm better than
Where I stand in these Vans competition ain't got a chance
Heard you plan to fail well then you're failing to plan
At a glance plant my flag all over this great expanse
I'm the greatest rapper, breathing or decomposing
Reanimate the corpses kill them and bring them roses
Scribbling the ether speak it then leave them frozen
And once the smoke clears they then believe I was chosen
Molded by the west side hard to digest
Got its pitfalls but I had to sidestep
Peace the east side and my guys in Hi-Crest
But I'm dope like what ya whip inside the Pyrex
[Chorus]
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
Gentleman and a scholar
Sitting in an Impala
Dipping through the lanes
Trying to get to a dollar
(cough, cough)
A dollar, trying to get to a dollar
And I knot that's got to fit in my wallet
[Verse 2]
See, this is hip-hop, no Glock, we got budgets
Never poked or popped nothing I'm saying I'm not fronting
Grinding for knots, whatever in spots hustling
Mama said 'don't cry, even when you chop onions'
Where they pitch lift off on the block they not budging
Standing in flip flops might dislodge something
Sharing sick thoughts flaws all for the public
Retired from mood music, my name is Joe Budden
When in reference to me please use excellency
More difference between us than six separate degrees
Like menu delicacies and the checks that you keep
Nothing comes between my bread except for lettuce and cheese
Why try to compete when you lie on the beat
Code of silence you violate coincide with the streets
Voice will keep your lady soaked let her dry on the beach
Still trying to get burn like its lye on the beat