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Artist: Master P f/ E-40
Album:  MP Da Last Don
Song:   Get Your Paper
Typed by:

Master P:  Ughhh! Ha ha!
E-40:  Oooo! Huh? P what’s up boy?
MP:  What’s up 40 boy?
E-40: Talk to me weepilation.
MP:  Dey don’t know we been doin’ dis.
E-40:  Last Deezy, Last Don.
MP:  Bay Area playa nigga.
E-40:  This E-Feezy Fonzareezy, your weepilation up out the Yea Area all day
er’ytime.  Like dis here.  Element of
Surprise.  Da Last Don, Charlie Hustle.  Check it out.

Let it be writ and said, done and published
That on the sixth month of June 1998
E-40 Fonzarellie AKA Charlie Hustleezy
And my Third Ward weepilation 
From the No Limit Records Headquarters and congregation
Plugged up and did a rumble together without no hesitation and erased
Any Old School classic memories of Northern California
Godzilla ballin’ and Bay stranglin’ and hustlin’
Morning, night, day in N’Orleans
And dang near fallin’ asleep on the freeway
Bobbin’ and weavin’ and ditchin’ and dodgin’ po-po, penelope force
Tryin’ to convince ‘em that me and the dope game wasn’t gettin along any how
We had been went our separate ways 
Shit, we been had a divorce 
In and out of court, betta yet
Neva was married any how and engaged
Pushed in the game at a young age, trapped in a ghetto cage
Went from hardly any to, uh, plenty of cash
To, uh, high speed chases to, uh, makin’ a dash
“Uh, excuse me sir can I have your autograph
And, uh, when your new album droppin’ fool 
That other shit was cool”

Get your money man, get your paper 
Get your paper man, get your money
Get your fettie or your scratch, get your skrill
Get your revvies man, get paid
Get your mail man, get your marbles
Get your marbles man, get your mail
Get your grits, get your chettah, get your chips
Get your snaps man, get paid

Mater P: 
Ughhh!  Ball wit da real, hang wit da G’s
Started from Richmond, California to New Orleans
Game won’t change, these niggas can’t fade me
Mama still pray for baby
Ghetto got me sick, dope fiends and crack heads
Niggas on da front porch wit’ tech nines and “lemon heads”
And all I want be is a soldier
Cause I’m tired of runnin’ from da rollas
Jumped in da rap game and now dey can’t hold us
Ghetto millionaires and still blowin’ doja
Keep my composure when times hectic
Now I own a house in California, Orlando, and Texas
And still run wit’ the thug niggas
And made tapes for bitches and drug dealas
And push 600 wit’ a bulletproof
The ghetto Bill Gates
The only president wit’ a gold tooth

Uh, n-neva let your guards down
Always play defense neva offense
Cause suckas a try to make your kindness for weakness 
And damn sho’ try to shake your hand up unda falsified pretenses
Sequence this 
Paint a portrait of these next events
See if you can predict what I was about to say
Within the next couple of sentences
Technically impossible
To hard to call
See right when he thought I was gone throw a slider 
I threw him a knuckle ball
Back against the wall, knockin’ niggas out (knockin’ niggas out)
Hemmed up in da corner nigga thats what I’m about

Master P:
Feel my pain, sometimes I feel trapped 
Nigga tired of hangin’ in the ghetto takin’ food stamps
Cause this street life got me crazy 
But I hustle cause I gotta feed a baby
And only God can take me
And ain’t no nigga in this hood gone play me
So when I ball I’m a ball ‘til I fizall
And when I’m gone put my name on the wizall

[Ad-libs until end]