Dickie Shorts and Lincolns clean Leanin' checkin' out the scene Gangsta bullets, black-ups lit Ridin' out, talkin' *** You know the club don't close to four Just party till we can't no more But y'all done come to four Damn, Lord That's the plot, Dickens It gives me the Dickens reminiscin' of Charles A lil' discotheque nestled in the ghettos of Nickeville, USA Via Atlanta, Georgia A lil' spot where young men and young women Go to experience their first lil' taste of the nightlife Me? Well, I've never been there Well, perhaps once, but I was so engulfed in the O.E. I never made it to the dope You speak of hardcore Why the DJ swear not all the problems and troubles of the day While this fine, bow-legged girl finest all-night doze Loves lukewarm lullabies in your left ear Competin' with set-it-off in the right But it all blends perfectly Let the liquor tell it Hey, hey, look baby, they playin' our song And the crowd goes wild As if Holyfield just won the fight But in actuality, it's only about three a.m. And three niggas just done got hauled off an Avalanche Two niggas done started bussin' One nigga done took his shirt off Tumba Now, who else wanna *** with Hollywood Cole? It's just my interpretation of the situation Yeah Damn, damn, damn, damn Damn, damn, damn, damn Damn, damn, damn, damn Damn, damn, damn, damn Damn, damn, damn, damn Yes, when I first met my Spode-O, that dopelicious angel I can remember that damn thing like yesterday The way she moved reminded me of a brown stallion horse with skates on, you know Smooth like a hot combo, nappa-ass hip I walked up on her and was almost paralyzed Her neck was smellin' sweeter than a plate of yams with extra syrup Eyes beamin' like four carrots apiece, just blindin' a nigga Felt like I cheaped the whole oil, that presidential, my heart would beat so damn fast Never knowin' this moment would bring another life into this world Funny how *** come together sometimes, you dig? One moment, you frequent the booty clubs And the next four years, you and somebody's daughter raisin' your own youngin' Now that's a beautiful thing That's if you're on top of your game and man enough to handle real life situations, that is Can't gamble feedin' baby on that dope money Might not always be sufficient But the United Parcel Service and the people at the post office didn't call you back Because you had cloudy piss So now you back in the trap Just that Trap Go on and marinate on that foot, man Jack Jack Jack