"My Stapler" lyrics - E-40

E-40

"My Stapler"

(T. Jackson / E. Stevens Jr.)

[Hook:]
You better have a bulletproof vest
'Cause these niggas out here, they be some haters
(Haters, mayne)
It's sick out on these streets, tryna stay up on your feet
Everybody got a Kater (Everybody got a Kater)
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler

[Verse 1: E-40]
I wanna come home, so I don't leave my home
Without my stapler, Rollo, thumper, pistol, chrome
'Cause they'll try to dome you where I'm at and where I'm from
Killafornia, walk up to you with a drum
Most of the time over something small and hella dumb
Like saying some stupid shit when you're drunk
You could plot your own demise by what comes from your tongue
Don't get killed behind a bitch 'cause you hella sprung
I was raised around older folks that lived a fast pace
Went to Gamed Up University where they lace the unlaced
Don't make me whip out on a nigga, stay tucked
They don't play by the rules no more, not even the people that made 'em up
UH! Ain't no refunds or no rebate
They'll put a hole in your face like a milk crate
Ain't no talkin' no more, these niggas don't debate
They appear to be real but they really fidnake (BIATCH!)

[Hook: E-40]
You better have a bulletproof vest
'Cause these niggas out here, they be some haters
(Haters, mayne)
It's sick out on these streets, tryna stay up on your feet
Everybody got a Kater (Everybody got a Kater)
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler
Don't, don't leave the house without your stapler

[Verse 2: Too $hort]
My first gun was a.32 Special
Six-shooter, don't fuck with my cash flow
'Cause my money don't stop
Remember when they first came with Glocks
17 shots, I got him
With all them bullets, you better pop him
'Cause them shit-starters, you gotta stop him
Shoot him in his ass with a shotgun
Those days are long and gone
Niggas blast now, it goes on and on
It's way too real when you're banging something
Pistol in his pocket, big thang in the trunk
The Bay wasn't ever about blue and red
But you still might end up dead, shot in the head
That's how they caught Michael
They sprayed him up with that assault rifle

[Verse 3: E-40]
Leaving the house unarmed, is like leaving an arm
Was taught that way ever since the day that I was born
Punk shit is at an all-time high, contagious like a yawn
After a funeral, two months is the extent of which they mourn
He got his hood on his neck and his back, his face and fist
But his hood turned they back, may he rest in piss
He's a goner no longer, he's been dismissed
Call the coroner or donor, cancel Christmas
Analyzing the ways of the world, I come to find out
Is it real when the preacher preaching the missionary shout?
Out here we be playing for keeps, especially in a drought
Put a tag on his for some bread, a certain amount
It's gruesome out here, it's far from gorgeous
Christians, Scientologists, agnostics, Mormons, UH!
I'mma keep it scrill 'til I meet my maker
Won't leave the house without my stapler