Praise the Lord

(It's Whitey. . . and the Likwit) repeats several times

Watch me rock these sounds from the Polo Grounds
To the Sunset Strip, I'm like an acid trip
I'm flashing back on ya, run it up on ya
Born in Hempstead L.I., raised in California
Mister entrepreneur, I rock the shot that's sure
I need a dime plus more, I sip the finely corked
I want the cash in hand, and the beats front land
And I get loco from Acapulco to Japan
Mister Whitey Ford gets terrain explored
You perpetrate that Ford, you must be out your gourd
It's time make like break nights kid, and praise the lord
Keep the faith, smoke your eighth
Continue stackin' papers all up in my safe
Commence to motivate, assume an altered state
And kill your whole wack show like I'm Edgar Alan Poe
It's the psychotic thriller, no peckerwood's iller
Than this freckled face man with the farmer's tan
If I can't bomb on you, I'm bombin' on your man

Chorus:
Some get the shit, sugar, some get the stains
Some get the muscles, baby, some get the brains
Some get the powers, love, some get the papers
Some catch the vibes and some catch the vapors
Better . . . [Praise the Lord . . . Keep, keep the faith (4x)]

I say roll to the rock, rock to the roll
Whitey Ford brings the devastating mic control
Like Darrell McDaniel, a hundred g's annual
The tips get clocked baby, the bonds get stocked
My style gets rocked just like doors get knocked
With legendary status like my name's Lou Brock
And my lanzar sounds be shaking the grounds
Hunting down crews, like packs of bloodhounds
Snatching off crowns and melting 'em down
I once was lost, see but now I'm found
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
And when the saints come marchin' in . .
(Keep the faith)
I messed the alpine white, classic rapper's delight
All these shorties pullin' tools, cause they know they can't fight
I bang my selections on worldwide connections
So get the seven digits baby, never burn your bridges

Chorus 2x