Song Meaning

The lyrics paint a vivid picture of a struggle for respect and compensation within the music industry, framed by a history of hardship and street credibility. The narrator recalls a past of "push twenty-fo' deep in '92 like cocaine" and performing in "broke down clubs just to get a meal," establishing a foundation built on grit and survival. This past directly informs the present conflict, where the core issue is being "stick me for my papers," a clear reference to being denied rightful earnings or recognition for his work. The repeated assertion that "shit gon' get you killed" if you don't pay up underscores the high stakes and the violent undercurrent of this professional dispute. The central tension revolves around betrayal and entitlement, particularly from those within or adjacent to the music business. The narrator feels wronged by individuals who "get niggas" and lack a "team," suggesting a network of exploitation rather than genuine collaboration. He expresses a deep distrust, stating "I want that meal ticket and we never will kick it 'cause you funny style," indicating a refusal to associate with those he perceives as disingenuous or deceitful. This animosity is amplified by the threat of violence, with the narrator declaring, "I'ma keep it real it was all skills that paid your bills," and implying that such disrespect will be met with brutal force. A striking element of the craft is the juxtaposition of street-level violence with the more abstract concept of "papers" – signifying artistic and financial ownership. The imagery of "cut your tongues off" and "stuff bloody 'em up" is starkly contrasted with the chorus's repeated phrase, "Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers." This contrast highlights how the narrator perceives the industry's machinations as a form of violent robbery, where his creative output and its value are being stolen. The recurring line, "Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off," coupled with "fuck your record company I'm about to blast off," signifies a defiant escape and a rejection of the system that seeks to exploit him. The effectiveness of these lyrics lies in their raw, unflinching portrayal of a specific kind of artistic and financial warfare. The narrator's voice is one of hardened experience, where past struggles have instilled a deep suspicion and a readiness for extreme measures. By grounding his grievances in both street vernacular and the business of music, he creates a potent narrative of survival and self-preservation. The visceral threats and the repeated emphasis on "papers" resonate as a direct confrontation with the exploitative aspects of the industry, making the listener feel the weight of his struggle and the intensity of his resolve.

Brotha Lynch Hung - Rap, Hardcore Rap

My Papers

2 Plays

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[Verse 1: Brotha Lynch Hung] I used to push twenty-fo' deep in '92 like cocaine Had them gangsta niggas riled up doin' it wit no name Stayin' at the roach motel two for two cheese hamburger deals Doin' shows in broke down clubs just to get a meal (Just to get a meal) I'ma keep it real it was all skills that paid your bills And the fact that you don't pay niggas that shit gon' get you killed But don't worry about me partna', like I said I'm already dead And I hold this infrared point blank range steadily at your head 'Cause I'm a blocc nigga you know what happens when you fuckin' wit us (fuckin' wit us) We cut your tongues off switch niggas and stuff bloody 'em up (bloody 'em up) Run up in the cut, fucc it up, rough you up and put you up (Put you up) These broke niggas don't give a mothafuck (Mothafuck) I want that meal ticket and we never will kick it 'cause you funny style Still wouldn't fuck wit you even if you gave me my money now Funny how ridaz get bought up, you about to get caught up like Bo King You be gettin' niggas that's why you ain't got no team nigga [Chorus: Brotha Lynch Hung] Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off So fuck your record company I'm about to blast off Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off Fuck your record company I'm about to blast off [Verse 2: Brotha Lynch Hung] I was young dumb full of cum full of O.E. and Rum Spittin' chunks of meat all heat always givin' up where I'm from In every verse 24 Blocc, I don't give a fucc Suppose to be in the studio but I'm somewhere drunk fuckin' up But like Too Short I ain't trippin' Used to be a record thing now it's a new sport put your clip in I heard you be dreamin' about niggas in ski masks with bottles of black molasses Ran up in your pad quick and woke your ass up wit the magnum I could have been platinum, a loc' went bad when you jacked him You gettin' old like Carl Weathers you ain't got no Action Jackson I'm mirror watchin' when I'm packin' nigga give me my shit You the type of nigga that'll pay for hits I don't pay for shit 'Cause I'm broke you wanted it that why for some reason Couldn't find you for nuttin' ever since I did Season Of Da Sicc, pick 'em off like Deion everything you see me on Is stolen in your life pure wit' a colon seriously until it's over I'ma always be at that ass wit' a butcher knife Askin' where you put your wife and why'd I took your life Houses got bought up you about to get caught up like Bo King You be gettin' niggas that's why you got no team [Chorus: Brotha Lynch Hung] Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off So fuck your record company I'm about to blast off Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off So fuck your record company I'm about to blast off [Verse 3: Brotha Lynch Hung] Shit it's gettin' to the point where I'ma smash on everybody And it's gettin' to the point where I don't fuck wit nobody Believe it I tuck the ol' shotty in the glove compartment Hit the town wit the pound, it'll be ground round if you start shit I spark shit, that heat you up and cool you off shit No choice for relinkin' homes I'ma get my profit We struggled for years on the bus wit a record out If it wasn't for shows I'll pull out the tec to take you out Hit the cut and lay low 'till I get my shit right Interrupt your day with fadeo'z put 44 holes in your windpipe They know I'm... I'm sicker than sick when I split your shit Leave you coughin' up liver bits, fuckin' niggas'll get your grip It ain't safe, nigga where was yo' faith? We could of blew up Better watch how you do stuff can't wait for the new stuff It's called Lynch By Inch I bit your bitch on the ground I say where's the money? Swiss account Bitch damn! That nigga's tryin' to get me for my papers Bam! Hit her up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off So fuck your record company I'm about to blast off [Chorus: Brotha Lynch Hung] Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off Fuck your record company I'm about to blast off Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off So fuck your record company I'm about to blast off Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off Fuck your record company I'm about to blast off Damn! That nigga tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit him up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off Nigga fuck your record company I'm about to blast off Damn! Niggas tryin' to stick me for my papers Bam! Hit 'em up wit' enough lead got away wit the caper Ran! To the 1964 and smashed off Fuck your record company I'm about to blast off Damn! [Interlude: Brotha Lynch Hung] You know what I'm saying nigga? (Shit) Can't do that shit for ever nigga (You know you can't) You know what I'm saying? You gots to pay niggas (That's real) You know what I'm saying Fuck all that shit, oh I'ma get mine nigga Can't stop that shit (Can't stop that shit) You know (I know) Back here where I'm supposed to be, you know? (Where that at?) It's all Siccmade music nigga (You know) Now what? [Bridge: Brotha Lynch Hung] Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Niggas tryna get me for my papers Niggas tryna get me for my papers Niggas tryna get me for my papers Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Niggas tryna get me for my papers Niggas tryna get me for my papers Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Niggas tryna get me for my papers Niggas tryna get me for my papers Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Niggas tryna stick me for my papers Tryna stick me for my... [Outro: Brotha Lynch Hung] Rest in peace Biggie and 2Pac You know what I'm saying Niggas put it down Shouts to them real niggas putting that real deep shit You know what I'm saying, you know who you are You know what I'm saying, making niggas cry over your shit Shit, making niggas ride to your shit I like that type of shit you know what I'm saying? That drunk, high, ride, night time shit Damn!

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Writers: Brotha Lynch Hung

My Papers

My Papers

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