Since When Lyrics
| Song | Since When |
| Artist | Cunninlynguists |
| Album | A Piece Of Strange |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Bush, CunninLynguists, Eames ... | |
| [Verse: 1] (Deacon) | |
| We flava the music, chop this screw that | |
| Take you through church in a verse til you view fact | |
| Holy ghost, from the lowly coast, spit humility | |
| Facing critics cold fronts, blocking our humidity | |
| (Natti) | |
| We own rap | |
| (Deacon) | |
| Fo sho as cognac'll twist you dome back | |
| Our tracks? see, they be nappy | |
| (Natti) | |
| But you can't comb that | |
| (Deacon) | |
| Call it el natural sound of soul | |
| You ain't seen these darts or how fast they've flown | |
| (Natti) | |
| From, 'tween these parts and the ones 'nere known | |
| My slang bang with a twang and hang on earlobes | |
| You hear Natti, hot as caddies | |
| With no steering column on them | |
| (Deacon) | |
| With enough lines to dry all the clothes that you own | |
| (Natti) | |
| Since when did the south | |
| (Deacon) | |
| Get pinned in a drought | |
| (Natti) | |
| Not never been clever since bic pens been about | |
| Reaching whatever levels that'll suspend any doubt | |
| That we as bad as you kids when this mics to our mouth | |
| [Hook] | |
| I hear 'em talking about souther folks can't rhyme | |
| Some of y'all must be out of your god damn mind | |
| Yeah, its about that time, we got that shine | |
| And niggaz been about them lines | |
| Since When? | |
| Ever since A Pocket Full of Stones | |
| Ridin Dirty in a chevy, sittin heavy on chrome | |
| Ever since Goodie Mo had food for soul | |
| And them dirty Red Dawgs done hit the do' | |
| Since When? | |
| [Verse: 2] (Natti) | |
| The Mason-Dixon Line, been across ya mind | |
| Like night sticks | |
| Rain down on the game and **** it up like white kicks | |
| I might switch, south paw | |
| (Deacon) | |
| Knuckle to jaw | |
| (Natti) | |
| If another broke nigga spit about spending it all | |
| I spit the gems that you splurge to put around neck | |
| So save that to pay back all your loans and debts | |
| (Deacon) | |
| A Maybach and a plague? Is that all you get? Shhhit | |
| (Natti) | |
| We struggle to juggle talent with a hell of a sales pitch | |
| (Deacon) | |
| Standin on southern dirt that helped America get rich | |
| You Ain't gotta struggle with a shovel to dig this | |
| Cold as no power, after hours in the winter months | |
| Hot though | |
| (Natti) | |
| Crock-pot flow | |
| (Deacon) | |
| So here dinner comes | |
| Walk them sheltoes down underground railroads | |
| (Natti) | |
| Niggaz fresh outta jail clothes, spittin like hells close | |
| (Deacon) | |
| And these words are'nt slurred | |
| Maybe how you listens blurred | |
| You ain't feelin sickness served? | |
| Mother****er kiss a curb | |
| [Hook] |
| zuo qu : Bush, CunninLynguists, Eames ... | |
| Verse: 1 Deacon | |
| We flava the music, chop this screw that | |
| Take you through church in a verse til you view fact | |
| Holy ghost, from the lowly coast, spit humility | |
| Facing critics cold fronts, blocking our humidity | |
| Natti | |
| We own rap | |
| Deacon | |
| Fo sho as cognac' ll twist you dome back | |
| Our tracks? see, they be nappy | |
| Natti | |
| But you can' t comb that | |
| Deacon | |
| Call it el natural sound of soul | |
| You ain' t seen these darts or how fast they' ve flown | |
| Natti | |
| From, ' tween these parts and the ones ' nere known | |
| My slang bang with a twang and hang on earlobes | |
| You hear Natti, hot as caddies | |
| With no steering column on them | |
| Deacon | |
| With enough lines to dry all the clothes that you own | |
| Natti | |
| Since when did the south | |
| Deacon | |
| Get pinned in a drought | |
| Natti | |
| Not never been clever since bic pens been about | |
| Reaching whatever levels that' ll suspend any doubt | |
| That we as bad as you kids when this mics to our mouth | |
| Hook | |
| I hear ' em talking about souther folks can' t rhyme | |
| Some of y' all must be out of your god damn mind | |
| Yeah, its about that time, we got that shine | |
| And niggaz been about them lines | |
| Since When? | |
| Ever since A Pocket Full of Stones | |
| Ridin Dirty in a chevy, sittin heavy on chrome | |
| Ever since Goodie Mo had food for soul | |
| And them dirty Red Dawgs done hit the do' | |
| Since When? | |
| Verse: 2 Natti | |
| The MasonDixon Line, been across ya mind | |
| Like night sticks | |
| Rain down on the game and it up like white kicks | |
| I might switch, south paw | |
| Deacon | |
| Knuckle to jaw | |
| Natti | |
| If another broke nigga spit about spending it all | |
| I spit the gems that you splurge to put around neck | |
| So save that to pay back all your loans and debts | |
| Deacon | |
| A Maybach and a plague? Is that all you get? Shhhit | |
| Natti | |
| We struggle to juggle talent with a hell of a sales pitch | |
| Deacon | |
| Standin on southern dirt that helped America get rich | |
| You Ain' t gotta struggle with a shovel to dig this | |
| Cold as no power, after hours in the winter months | |
| Hot though | |
| Natti | |
| Crockpot flow | |
| Deacon | |
| So here dinner comes | |
| Walk them sheltoes down underground railroads | |
| Natti | |
| Niggaz fresh outta jail clothes, spittin like hells close | |
| Deacon | |
| And these words are' nt slurred | |
| Maybe how you listens blurred | |
| You ain' t feelin sickness served? | |
| Mother er kiss a curb | |
| Hook |
| zuò qǔ : Bush, CunninLynguists, Eames ... | |
| Verse: 1 Deacon | |
| We flava the music, chop this screw that | |
| Take you through church in a verse til you view fact | |
| Holy ghost, from the lowly coast, spit humility | |
| Facing critics cold fronts, blocking our humidity | |
| Natti | |
| We own rap | |
| Deacon | |
| Fo sho as cognac' ll twist you dome back | |
| Our tracks? see, they be nappy | |
| Natti | |
| But you can' t comb that | |
| Deacon | |
| Call it el natural sound of soul | |
| You ain' t seen these darts or how fast they' ve flown | |
| Natti | |
| From, ' tween these parts and the ones ' nere known | |
| My slang bang with a twang and hang on earlobes | |
| You hear Natti, hot as caddies | |
| With no steering column on them | |
| Deacon | |
| With enough lines to dry all the clothes that you own | |
| Natti | |
| Since when did the south | |
| Deacon | |
| Get pinned in a drought | |
| Natti | |
| Not never been clever since bic pens been about | |
| Reaching whatever levels that' ll suspend any doubt | |
| That we as bad as you kids when this mics to our mouth | |
| Hook | |
| I hear ' em talking about souther folks can' t rhyme | |
| Some of y' all must be out of your god damn mind | |
| Yeah, its about that time, we got that shine | |
| And niggaz been about them lines | |
| Since When? | |
| Ever since A Pocket Full of Stones | |
| Ridin Dirty in a chevy, sittin heavy on chrome | |
| Ever since Goodie Mo had food for soul | |
| And them dirty Red Dawgs done hit the do' | |
| Since When? | |
| Verse: 2 Natti | |
| The MasonDixon Line, been across ya mind | |
| Like night sticks | |
| Rain down on the game and it up like white kicks | |
| I might switch, south paw | |
| Deacon | |
| Knuckle to jaw | |
| Natti | |
| If another broke nigga spit about spending it all | |
| I spit the gems that you splurge to put around neck | |
| So save that to pay back all your loans and debts | |
| Deacon | |
| A Maybach and a plague? Is that all you get? Shhhit | |
| Natti | |
| We struggle to juggle talent with a hell of a sales pitch | |
| Deacon | |
| Standin on southern dirt that helped America get rich | |
| You Ain' t gotta struggle with a shovel to dig this | |
| Cold as no power, after hours in the winter months | |
| Hot though | |
| Natti | |
| Crockpot flow | |
| Deacon | |
| So here dinner comes | |
| Walk them sheltoes down underground railroads | |
| Natti | |
| Niggaz fresh outta jail clothes, spittin like hells close | |
| Deacon | |
| And these words are' nt slurred | |
| Maybe how you listens blurred | |
| You ain' t feelin sickness served? | |
| Mother er kiss a curb | |
| Hook |
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