Correction Lyrics Where You At by Dj Khaled

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Lyrics

Uh, yeah
Woo! Uh, it’s going down, niggas!
Yes! Khaled! Free!
Uh, uh, uh

It’s that slow flow, F-R double-E, nigga
See them pussy niggas but you can’t see me
I’m sunk in the seat
Clutch my hammer close, I’m controlling the V
And love the cities on both the coasts
But still repping the East, yeah
They like, “Freeway, where you been?”
In North Philly, in the hood, cooking a ki’
Tell me, how crooked is he?
The mayor gave him the key to the city
Then he turn around and flood the city with nickels
To break the cycle, the nine-nickel chrome
The mini-mansion, his home
If Khaled call my phone, I’m in the place to be
G4, the M-I, get high, float in the friendly sky
I’m that fly, tell my pilot the fourth
Far as raps, I murder tracks, Philly
I kill the shit out a sixteen
Shit’s mean, spit a clip for the chorus, I
Tape and record it, put the murder on wax, I
Ship it out to Khaled and shoot a video for it, holla!

I’m from the East where them ARs shooting
Ruthless, niggas will leave you naked, for the record
Khaled from the South where them bammers be moving
Walk into yo’ house and will leave you tied up, for the dollar
Can’t forget the West, where them niggas be looting
Shooting over colors, they will kill ya mother, for the record
And where you at, nigga? That’s where you from, nigga
So rep where you from, nigga, wherever you at, nigga

My shooter keep it moving, you niggas barely moving
Them bullets almost hit you, you scream, “A-hallelujah!”
I’m on grind, all-time with the Ruger
And Khaled, all these niggas [?], they want me to lose, but
I’m on my Ps and Qs and, I got my eyes open
Can make it happen with rapping, I get my Ps and Qs in
I know Katrina shooting, know Mr. Robert smoking
I supply the addicts, they grab the baggage and keep it moving
Keep it, holding, 6-series, not stolen
Drop the lop look like the roof stolen, call the cops
He be stacking like Lego, leave me holding all the blocks
Run up on him, treat you like the drop, roof open
All them stick-up boys scheming on them fat boys scoping
They be hoping that I’m slipping, I be praying that I’m not
Nigga, ’til then, I’m supplying the block
Free at Last almost here, you should keep ya ears open, nigga!

95-South, homie, tell ‘em I’m en route
And I ain’t fronting nothing neither, that ain’t what I’m ‘bout
No doubt; from Virginia, where the drought never touch us
Them dopes in the pillows, the home of the couch-stuffers
Pop clutches, drop-tops on all you motherfuckers
And all the baddest bitches pretending that they love us
Fucking the soul out us, we call ‘em the Golden-Mouthers
Paying for the service with Louis or Gucci pouches
Send ‘em to they spouses, we back in the street
Cooking up them ounces, from a quarter to a ki’
Call me Place-Your-Order P, c’est la vie
If you want it, know, I got it for cheap, Re-Up Gang, niggas!
We cock and bang, niggas, we cop them thangs, niggas
Million records sold and still them same niggas
Bigger picture, grill with the angel fixtures
Where I’m at, they measure worth by your figures, uh!

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