Jackpot - U-God, Jackpot Scotty Wotty

The rip of the jackpot, cheddar cheese stacka

Trip off the black crip, why I’m safe cracka

I have you leapin' like a greenbay packa

Newest sensation off the meat racka

I had to mention it, I knew it would attract her

It was all cool, I was waiting for the after

Book a jackpot, pick your own chapter

Beastin' and feastin' and livin' like a trappa

Shit stay spinnin' like a Mexican gattlin'

Pour the … shit, just a piece of the action

Yeah you know about that Fatal Attraction

Brand new shit that was made for crashin'

The palma lade, the marmalade, that was for maxin'

Knucklehead niggas need John the Baptist

So get it up like ransom

I need play everyday like the National Anthem

You don’t have to like it 'cause it’s good

Oh shit, I’m sittin' in my crib, I’m writing rhymes in the hood

Drunk niggas misundersood

You know them sober mother fuckers better knock on wood

I put it out cause its ample

Them greedy G’s drop dead off the 2 pic sample

And then you grab a whole handful

You run slam up the block… (?) and jackpot pamphlets

And don’t question the answer, my word brain diagnosed like terminal cancer

And people thinkin' I’m a phantom, like I’m all made up like Marilyn Manson

A lil' nigga, you my grandson

Cause if you bite my shit, son, you gon' need a transfer

You know jojo was no dancer

I need play everyday like the National Anthem

So get it up like ransom

I need play everyday like the National Anthem

Camp Callaway on a Billie Holiday

See niggas couldn’t see me Donny Hathaway

They say Wott, them niggas heard you three blocks away

You know I smoke cats like three packs a day

There’s no gizmo, sashmo (?) is armstrong

Break beat, one take, lean on a horn

Scratch my brick and I can get the main ingredient

Slam my door and I be reaching for that Commodore

Everybody wants a good goodie

You know another black teen got buried in a hoodie

Some thought … (?) live in a pink bubble

He said he did it for the team, just stay outta trouble

See Charlie had a parker (?), Reggina rang a bell

I had Anita bakin' cake in the back stairwell

All’s forgiven, welcome to Thanksgivin'

Order me three Bernie Macs, three six-packs of Old Gold

Make sure it’s Nat King Cole

Make sure it’s Nat King Cole

Make sure it’s Nat King Cole

I got the hot shit cookin' on the stove