Last Call

Last Call

Tha Alkaholiks

Yo last call, last call, last call for alcohol!
At two, you're through!

J-ro ay bartendah! bartender!
Bart yo whassup man?
J-ro ay man, man let me get a rum an coke
Bart yo man don't you think you had a little bit too much to drink?
J-ro ay just let me get one more man
Bart yo man I'm lookin' out for you man, it's your life
J-ro man I'll hop over this motherfucker and get my own damn drink

Hey niggy, what time it is

It's time to roll my sleeves, fuck a few mc's up
Another rough cut, from the crew that won't ease up
The alkaholik click, aka the forty downers
Flips rhymes like calvin flips fries and quarter pounders
I never drink and drive 'cause I might spill my drink
I failed the breathalyzer so they took me to the clink
Niggas earlin' in the sink 'cause they can't fade the cisco
I'm from the old school but I never rocked a disco
Loops from the group that, likes to smack the bitches
Tha liks is hittin' hookers like a gangsta hittin' switches
Front, to the back, to the side, to the side
And make you dance with these bitches but, no electric slidin'
And I'm about to flip, but first I'm bout to sip
Off the forty ounce of brew that I was savin' for the trip
Back to the lab 'cause all I do is bang cuts
That's why I hang around my group like a dick hang with nuts

I push one two's when niggas step on my shoes
Oh you haven't heard the news I've been giving fools blues
Manhandling chumps that step up, just to keep my rep up
I push my fist through your grill
I never became a gangsta, thanks ta, my skill
On the nine inches of steel
You ask me what the k's for, they don't mean nothin'
("k's for the way my dee-jay's kuttin",- schoolly d, p.s.k.)

[Chorus]
Last call y'all {call y'all
Call y'all {call y'all
{last call, for alcohol
Last call y'all {call y'all
Call y'all {call y'all
{last call, for alcohol

Yeah word
Alkaholik style nigga

Uh, I be one of dem niggas known to drink a gang of brewskis
Float like the wind, so all y'all can call me cool breeze
Cooler than my man morris day in the winter
The dope rhyme inventor, rockin shows at the center
So pass the mic on the, down low
Now go grab a forty from the liquor sto'
And you don't stop {don't stop and you don't quit {don't quit
Unless you're in the studio making wack shit

[Chorus]

Yeah that nigga squid is in the house

I got a forty-four mag with the clip (with a clip)
So mc's watch your lip, 'cause I'm shootin' from the hip ahh
I rip like oprah, in tight jeans do
And splits a needle wrap a pair man because them shits is on the fritz
It's crazy, a few mc's amaze me
With this alkie style of rock, Mr. spock couldn't phase me
Rhymin' pays me, but I do it anyway
Many say, ay, when it comes to rhymes you got plenty j
I'm so cool I drink forty ounces of freon
You never see me on the stage with a peon
When we on the microphone it's like Jordan all alone
We slam, competition, scram damn
Can we get along? nope.
Switchblade to the throat to mc's who ain't dope
Call me j-ro the clepto, 'cause I'm stealing to the jaw
Of these half-baked rappers, trying to get raw

Soul in my strut, muscle in my hustle
It's just a little something for them punks that wanna bust they little
Def jam comedy, raps that make me crack up
You better call the one-time and tell 'em send a backup
'cause I'm about to act up, I couldn't kick a verse
J-ro say he got it bad, so that mean I got it worse
Check uno dos, crack a forty, make a toast
Let me rip the instrumental and impress the west coast

[Chorus]

Uh damn it feels like my bones is rattling
Uh oh shit! I'm outta here

Oh yeah, tell the sons of Jones to kiss my ass

Written by SMITH, STEVEN P.
Published by Universal Music Publishing Group

Lyrics Provided By LyricFind Inc.

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