Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Clientele Kidd, artist - Raekwon. Date of issue: 31.12.2002
Song language: English
Clientele Kidd |
| Yo straight up last minute, you know what time it is |
| Word up, yeah, yeah, yeah |
| Word up, blip blip blap blap blap |
| What up? |
| Who don’t know? |
| They don’t know, betta let 'em know |
| There they go, here we go |
| Aiyo Clientele Kidd |
| Layin in the crib gettin' ill money, those who hate ours get hit |
| Got rugby’s on and 4/5ths |
| Attractin' them niggas I go against, the money was his |
| One nasty unit of murderers, all type of Goons’ll watch |
| Then four minutes later they burglars |
| I heard from the grapevine mine made it |
| Elevate the name up, this gift gotta reign and his game went up |
| And now he’s stronger than ever, Nike jackets and Classics |
| Go against it and it’s instant vendettas |
| He run things, gun down Kings, check the joint the kid flyin' in |
| Crib in Africa with two lions |
| Somethin' like the Prince of a jewel thief, so smack the millions |
| Came back wrapped it up, too sweet |
| The game is missin' somethin' unique |
| I put too much to fall back on, I rather just sleep |
| CHEF! |
| We designin', rhymin' with Diamonds |
| CHEF! |
| Ice Water, it was all in the timin' |
| CHEF! |
| He gave y’all niggas bricks on consignment |
| CHEF! |
| To the death and he Billboard climbin' |
| Yeah uh |
| Yo Don Carta' bomb harder over nearly everybody |
| Very rarely you find me without the mini-shotti |
| Just waitin' for Rae to give me the cue and |
| You see about 100 Puerto Rican niggas shootin' |
| Get down, lay down, we don’t play around |
| I don’t know what you heard but, we don’t play around |
| It’s cooked coke, but look, but what the fuck happened? |
| How you leave the dope game to pursue rappin'? |
| Already knowin' that ya shit was trash |
| Breathin' hard on the mic when yo' click is ass |
| All we tryin' to do is bring dignity to rap |
| And you kiddin' me? |
| I’m literally the epitome of that |
| Uh, we much better than y’all, Terre-error the Squad |
| My niggas set it when we get in the yard |
| Whether Marcy or Comstock, triggers 'pon cock |
| Straight punch in ya lung and you niggas gon' drop |
| What? |
| Yo yo yo shoot him in his mouth. |
| (nah) |
| Fuck him, get the gasoline tell Terry to pull the Ac' up |
| Bring him to Rae warehouse, hang him from hooks then skin his ass |
| As lame as he look he ready to cook (yeah) |
| And he pleadin' for mercy, bleedin' from his dome and he thirsty |
| The first week we made him eat shit! |
| Videotaped his wiz and I fucked his bitch |
| Made him watch me on the couch havin' fun with his kids |
| So what hurts more: is it me showin' love to ya fam? |
| Or you in the box laid under the floor? |
| Or keep you alive blow torchin' ya balls? |
| My murder chainsaw, ya bloods on my Scarface walls |
| Not even Ajax can clean that, Jack |
| We need that maintenance man shit that kill that greasy blood on contact |
| Finish you off cuz I’m pressed for time |
| Your man and 'em will be next to die |
| Mothafucka! |