Bird Call J.R. Writer (Ft. Cam'ron & Lil Wayne)

[Hook: J.R. Writer]
To all my hustlers, rock smugglers, strugglers
Block bubblers, pushers, cookers, pot jugglers
Whats the word y'all, flip that herb, raw
Clap, that's the byrd call
If the cops are coming, get to hop and running
Quick and drop that onion, ain't no stopping, young'un
Put away that herb, raw, let us know the word or
Clap, that's the byrd call

[Verse 1: J.R. Writer]
I still be where the weed flip, in the P's with the trees lit
So much water in the order, it's just leaving them seasick
With a ski in my V6, trying to skeet on a b lips
Down low, like I'm trying to keep her a secret
Act wrong, chrome, passing me dome
Next minute -- shit, I'm finished; she'll be flagging it home
But I always keep a straggler that's known to bone
And run through a lap faster than Marion Jones
Man listen, I still got them grams flipping, tan pitching
Corner to the damn kitchen
Gained a couple fans, had to make a transition
But I'm still in the hood like a transmission
No cat can match me, I'm passing fastly -- who's half as nasty?
I got it locked from here all the way to Cak-a-lacky
But keep a Mac for Scrappy, thinking its just laffy taffy
Shit, this beat'll be the only thing clapping at me