The Truth Is Back!!!

Southern Smoke..

[Hook]

You hear a lot of music, but it's boring

You hear a lot of flows, but don't enjoy 'em

You hear a lot of albums, and you snoring

But the truth is back, now they say where you been

Cause we ain't really seen you out performing

You back up in the streets, you hot you're boiling

Chamillitary click, is the click they wanting

You know that OG Ron C, gon screw it for them

A lot of DJ's, didn't wanna mess with the kid

But like dancers that love to strip, they back up on my dick

And of course, maybe it's because of the fact that I'm rich

And the diamonds up on my wrist, look like a package of piss

Looked like they pissed, in a ice cube tray

Put it in the freezer, so by the next day

They could put it on my wrist, so that I could display

Yellow ice looks like butter, but it isn't parquet

Hey, well let me tell you how I did it then

Stepped up the mixtapes, and put 'em in every city man

Send 'em Greyhound, in every other city and

Wallet the size of Guerilla Black's, or Biggie's hand (baby-baby)

And I got plenty mo' to do dog, that's true y'all

Chamillitary is the click, if that's what you thought

Yellow green red white blue, and my new jaw

Check out the paint, same colors cover my new car

When it come to getting fed, I'm the baker with the bread

Know exactly what they said, voices ain't just in my head

Get back up in the streets, so the rumors can be dead

Cause I'm the rapper that they dread, like Lil' Wayne's head

Bumba claat watch, now watch me I'm the one to watch

One with a lot of colored cubes, and a bunch of blocks

And the watch, and them girls that be coming out

The closet with a friend, meet her I just wanna watch

Chamillion-ator's on the way, that's who saving the day

After the math I bust a rhyme, rapping after you pay

Niggaz say they songs jamming, yeah that's just what they say

Like Part 2 of that Kelly song, they end up being gay

But it ain't Weezy, it ain't even B.G

Because how much I push the cash money, they don't believe me

Turn on the DVD, and the c.d

Don't watch me, homeboy watch T.V

Head rest, 7.5 Clarion

You ain't trying to see me shine, you could carry on

Haters hate, and that's the reason that I carry one

Make a home run and run home, like Barry Bonds

Yeah, I got 'em shook in a towel

Ron Artest of rap ha-ha, look at me now

Single handedly, handle the suckers up in the crowd

Fist to your lip you'll get whipped, while they kicking me out

Ouch, cause that looked like it hurt

And the worst part about it, is it looks like the dirt

Getting acquainted with your shirt, become one with the turf

As I watch you fall down, and tell you just what you worth

You no good, dirty rotten scoundrel

I pull these hoes, like promoters out of town do

I get mail, like workers in the color brown do

Chamillion you're the best, can't nobody out sound you

Chad Hugo to Pharrell, I'm the star on the track

Look at my diamonds, and see how many broads they attract

And it's true in the studio, they on my balls and my sack

Say it's a hit, before Chamillionaire even start on a track

I pull up in slow motion, like my car on a flat

Trunk going up, like directions that you saw on a map

I wear the multi-colors now, but that's part of the fact

That I stay throwing up the rocks, like the Carter was back

It's the Roc, psyche nigga it's not

But it's prolly a rock sized bullet, up in it's pop

Sorry mayn I forgot, to put the heater on lock

But didn't forget the underground, lock it up for my spot

I'm back, and I'm too hot

[Hook]

Southern Smoke, Southern Smoke