Chino Xl Our Time (feat. Proof Of D-12) lyrics

 
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Our Time (feat. Proof Of D-12) by Chino Xl (feat. Proof of D12) [Proof:] What does the mic and beat mean to me It's more than just greenery It's not what I do to be It's savage with thievery Easily I was sucked in By these labels that fucked with Over and over with me and tried a hold to get publishin It's not what you think it is Imagine a stinkin kid Fiend for a dream and snappin a blink it in Before ya eyes you And all ya guys been The tour then rise oh shit you while and dies You in love with this hip hop You don't care when the shit stop But then the shit stop make you overflow when you get dropped It's back to the street agains Search for the beat again Find the love again a piece of paper I need a pen This is the essence man For me and my blessed friends Although with your separate ends Proof got a second win But hate what I become through the venom in my tongue But I could find myself by the rhythm of the drum [chorus:] It's the beats (the beats) the rhymes (the rhymes) The mic (the mic) we shine (we shine) It's yours (it's yours) it's mine (it's mine) This our time yall niggaz get back in line It's the beats (the beats) the rhymes (the rhymes) The mic (the mic) we shine (we shine) It's yours (it's yours) it's mine (it's mine) It's our time yall niggaz get back in line [Chino XL:] Is it okay if the Neptunes didn't produce me? Is it okay if I poor my heart out over looseleaf? Is it okay wack rappers die and I don't lose sleep? Excuse me but hip hop these days it don't enthuse me I been framed like Mona Lisa, crucified like Easter My dreams I still leave none dead like Mother Theresa Trekked to be a star show no emotion like Data The business is gay and it's homeless got not posit to come outta Matter of fact it takes a real nigga like Proof to understand me I can't dress crazy like Outkast to win the Grammy Even ya family tries to play you till you get all rich The whole world is underhanded like a softball pitch A while back to define rap was ill verses on albums I spit it harder than hitchhikin with no thumbs They're makin hip hop a joke when there's nothin to smile at I stay stoned like naked white women hoein in Iraq Would you rather be a revered reverend thug angel in Heaven or Famous in Hell then in yaself like David Chapelle to sell Knowin ya in a cell for well from too stealth I refuse to blow a verses that smell like pricewell (Yo yall thug niggaz is wack but that money put some kid through college) Fuck 'em I spit his mom if they hit his garbage So many fallow what they really shallow Would not allow my daughters to even watch the channel Unless Alicia Keyes or Tina Marie is rockin the piano This ain't Chingy nigga, this is Chino This flow right herr' be wetter than Finding Nemo Fame ain't what I thought it be like It's like midnight in the desert full of rattlesnakes Waitin for one to strike

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