Lyrical Breakdown of Hit - A Journey through Words and Rhymes

Welcome to the detailed analysis of "Hit" on Lazyjot. Here, we unravel the lyrical complexity and artistic brilliance that define this iconic song.

• Lyric Overview: Witness how Gucci Mane weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "Hit" is a testament to masterful songwriting.
• Rhyme and Rhythm Analysis: Our Lazyjot editor highlights the ingenious use of multi-syllabic rhymes and the rhythm pattern that Gucci Mane employs. Understand the construction of each verse and how it contributes to the song's overall impact.
• Syllable Pattern Insights: Dive deeper into the structural elements of the lyrics. See how the syllable count varies across the song, adding a unique rhythm and flow to Gucci Mane's narrative.

This lyrical analysis of "Hit" not only celebrates Gucci Mane's artistic prowess but also serves as an educational tool for aspiring songwriters. If this analysis inspires you and you'd like to see your own songs analyzed in this way, join the Lazyjot community. Register at Lazyjot and start exploring the full potential of your lyrical creativity. Turn your thoughts into rhymes and your rhymes into songs with Lazyjot!

(Thanks, Yakree) uh Yeah, yeah Count that dough, put that over there, let's get it right, you hear me? (Big Za) I'm a shit talker, I'm a shit popper (shit popper) He got money problems, he ain't got a thousand dollars (got a thousand dollars) We some real trappers, we get real active (real active) Say your pockets smaller, she only fuck with ballers (real ballers) Countin' blue hundreds, then I rubber band it, boy (rubber band it, boy) In the club throwin' ones left-handed, boy (left-handed, boy) Let me grab that ass, baby, so I know it's real (come here, baby) Ay, you broke, boy, you ain't got no business over here (why you over here?) Rich nigga preference, that's a great selection (great selection) Babygirl exhausted, she looking for the bosses (for the bosses) Neck goin' stupid, wrist too icy, nigga (bling) Say she want Louis, say she tired of Nike, nigga (nigga) Maybach cost a quarter, I'm eatin' steak and oyster (yeah) I like Rolls-Royces, got too many choices (yeah) You wanna win, call us, wake up, fuck the mall up (nigga) Every car fogged up, and my pockets clogged up (yeah) I don't wanna rap with you, boy, I got shit to do (I got shit to do) Dog shit in a two-seater, this a chicken coupe (this a chicken coupe) Put a hundred in my mouth, I just left Johnny, huh (bling, bling) Big Za in the club, it's a damn tsunami (Big Za) I'm a shit talker, I'm a shit popper (shit popper) He got money problems, he ain't got a thousand dollars (got a thousand dollars) We some real trappers, we get real active (real active) Say your pockets smaller, she only fuck with ballers (real ballers) Countin' blue hundreds, then I rubber band it, boy (rubber band it, boy) In the club throwin' ones left-handed, boy (left-handed, boy) Let me grab that ass, baby, so I know it's real (come here, baby) Ay, you broke, boy, you ain't got no business over here (why you over here? Go) I got real paper, real tall paper (uh) I hide my money in the wall, I call it wallpaper (damn) I only smoke flavors and all my suits tailored I got my neighbors mad 'cause my house bigger than my neighbors' (facts) I'm a rich nigga, I need a rich bitch Shorty seen the Wop, she's tryna risk it (mwah) Drop-top Ferrari, so you know the top is off (off) She say she scared of spiders, so I had to drop her off (go) I ain't got no worries, I got rich-nigga problems (problems) And when it come to poppin', I'm like Orville Redenbacher (poppin') Part-time rapper, full-time shit talker Can I touch, see if it's real, bae? 'Cause that shit wobblin' (it's Gucci) I'm a shit talker, I'm a shit popper (shit popper) He got money problems, he ain't got a thousand dollars (got a thousand dollars, well, damn) We some real trappers, we get real active (real active, active) Say your pockets smaller, she only fuck with ballers (ballers) Countin' blue hundreds, then I rubber band it, boy (rubber band it, boy) In the club throwin' ones left-handed, boy (left-handed, boy, Wop) Let me grab that ass, baby, so I know it's real (come here, baby) Ay, you broke, boy, you ain't got no business over here (why you over here? Go, go, go, go)