เนื้อเพลง Don't Play Wit It - Yung Joc

[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*ggaz know
I'm tired of playin games.. I'm tired of playin wit'chu man
(Preach on) Y'all n*ggaz 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 piss 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 coke in
You say "I don't know" then your blood start gushin

[Chorus 2X: Yung Joc]
I done told your ass once (once) told your ass 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 ass 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 class, ride by snatch her ass
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 pass, got that ass
So I'm in the good, n*gga smokin like a thermostat
Flashin hella 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 s*cker 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*ggaz 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?