Marinatin’ - Ras Kass

We could marinate, get nice and and stack riches

(But it’s B.Y.O.B.) Bring your own bud, brew, and bitches

Ain’t no set trippin', actin' ill and don’t steal, for real

(You got’s to chill)

I woke up in my Tommy Hilfiger boxers at 10

From a knock at the door, but why they at my door for?

Oh, my peeps they got a half gallon, smiling

My talons totaled ten one empty round from putting it down

But now, my day is starting off Coca Cola and Remy Martin

Some of the homeys from L.A. and Carson want to throw a private party today

Threw on some Gautier and my Rolex link dressed to kill like Bernhard Goetz

My squad flex like Lee Haney

So it’s best I keeps myself on house arrest, 'cause never know, maybe

They might wind up in 429 Bauchet, locked away

Plus can’t keep the booty calls waiting, I’m marinating

Dialed up some micehead to see what’s crackin' tonight

She said she just broke up with her man

And since she free like Mandela, she bringin' a box of Philly pantellas

A capella, I got game like Lou Piniella made sure to tell her

Don’t bring no fellas, cherral, girl you can braid the tweed

And then you can show me how to do the pepper seed

Agreed, 'cause we get down like this on a regular, loungin'

Watchin' bootleged tapes, shooting jokes, your choice of imported smokes

Craps and cee-lo on the patio for more chips than bingo

Chips like the MGM casino

Just make sure your homegirls is single, so it’s popping

'Cause ain’t nothing worse than fifth wheels that’s cockblocking

And knocking while I’m knocking talking about she ret' to go

I want some of your brown sugar while I bump D’Angelo

(Fo'sho) No special holiday, but sometimes just being alive is a reason for

celebratin'

So we mariniatin'

I get around like Dolby Pro Logic

But running them streets too much get fools hated, incarcerated, or terminated

At the house we safely intoxicated, Nonoxynol-9 lubricated

Playing questions, everybody faded and now

We got the ladies undressing like 1st King strippers

Bouncin' on niggas balls like the LA Clippers

The phone rang, my little shorty said «What you up to, boo?»

Nothing, just chillin' like Bruh-Man on Martin do

See only when I’m tipsy, when my words start slurring

Do I get caught telling lies like Mark Fuhrman, so I’ll call you later

Drink was low, went to the stash and pulled out the XO

The T.U.'s is down for whatever

Let’s run more trains than the Metrorail

But y’all got to be out by two

I’m getting sleepy and plus my boo is coming through

So let the front door hit you where Ru Paul probably might

And everybody asking what’s up for tomorrow night