Intro-JR Writer

Get it clear -- hater, I'm here Still Standing, welcome to the tape of the year Haze in the air , I done turned it up another notch Bulbs in my ear, I done turned it up a couple watts At the motherf**king spot -- not the "motherf**king spot" But your mother's f**king spot, with the butter in the pots I don't know why I come across humble when I'm not Might have lost a couple rocks, but I'm up a couple blocks Suckers need to stop, give me a break Since '07 I've been getting six figures a tape While you get what you take I'm a bit overweight Picking pounds up like I'm trying to get into shape Hundred grips In the safe, that's something you know nothing 'bout So get in your place -- my bad, I mean your mother's house Put up the right cash And these corns want beef, I'mma crush 'em like hash The hottest you know; you gotta be slow I'm still standing, nothing like the Monica show The Dips split, and they wondering which side I'mma go But I don't pick sides, and the game's not to be told I don't switch sides, man -- the game's got to be sold I'm gonna let the Dip fly until they can't fly anymo' No, ain't no one iller; what up, Killa? Ain't speak about two years but what up, ni**a? I'm still J.R., a.k.a. A.R B.k.a. "Who are you? You ain't on my radar" Get it? This my play-yard, and I don't want these pawns around Play hard, I play you out -- listen, this my stomping ground I want the crown even though that I'm a champion You still buying Champions Sh*t, i'm from lionel hampton 130th Burning piff With the burner grip I don't need a burner to murder this -- I just murder it I know you heard I'm sick, or if not, you heard I'm sick And yeah, the flow from outer space, but I'm Earthing this How you sold grams? You ain't never served a brick It's like you got no hands -- you ain't got a bird to flip I'm from the murder strip, hood life shady Nah, I wasn't born a rapper -- the hood life made me But lately, I've been in the hood like crazy Put red marks on your head, you'll look like Baby, baby I am great, skipping on the race 730, but what I meant it's twenty minutes late Niggas reckless, give the kid a break Scott Tissue records, I'm shitting on your tapes Still lamping Lex With the grill dancing Still scrambling cause yes, I'm a real champion Of course, come mess with a real cannon You thought I fell off, well welcome to Still Standing