| Just keep away (just keep away
|
| Go on, it’s not your fight!)
|
| It’s not yours nigga, fall back
|
| I’m about to blow something out here
|
| Straight up, yeah, this is a family thing
|
| We gon' handle our business and shit
|
| These muthafuckas know not to come around here like that
|
| This is real shit, real talk
|
| Four different niggas, with four different aspects, nigga
|
| This is family shit
|
| Who the fuck said family ain’t family no more, nigga?
|
| This is tight shit, tighter than white in ya wallet
|
| Yo, I’m talking bags of heavy coke, bracelets on every men
|
| Innocent dope pushers, over night king pins
|
| Indeed, we smack niggas up for their cheese
|
| Throw bleach in yo face, got beef, let it be chuck
|
| The streets don’t know my peeps
|
| Jumpin' out of UPS trucks, blowing niggas off they feet
|
| With four-four gloves, rims spinning, tippin' on fo-fo's
|
| My mouth be worth millions, something like Paul Wall’s
|
| Ladies look out; |
| they ain’t thugs, they homo’s
|
| The film look hyper, when I clap 'em in slo mo'
|
| Ya’ll still paying the mob? |
| We whip niggas out like waffle batter
|
| Theodore ancient with dart, flossin' them diamonds
|
| Discussing our hits over a glass of scotch
|
| Baywatch bitches that ski, take turns when they hand us the twat
|
| Think not, we still run the trains, til the condom pop
|
| On the low, we still fucking them cops
|
| Pretty things from all precints, friday nights, we holding they Glocks
|
| This is family, nigga, niggas can’t stand me
|
| Next up, my little man, I hand you the jammy
|
| You know the fam, what it is, it is what it is
|
| S.I.N.Y., where the animals live
|
| Ass bet, niggas run in yo cribs
|
| I don’t care if you blast for the cash, then scramble yo wig
|
| I’m like «Damn, what a wonderful kid»
|
| I could do what I want, doing dirt, not serving a bid
|
| You know a real fam handle they biz, everybody get searched
|
| From the grandpops, down to the kids
|
| And my time, I’m officially here, tell ya man
|
| Go and start up ya car, start shifting the gears
|
| Sun God got the pits for his ears, cuz niggas is scared
|
| Hoping I don’t let it blow in they ribs
|
| I said hot, niggas get robbed non stop
|
| Once the gun cock, niggas strip down to they socks
|
| And my fam at the tippity top, I won’t stop
|
| Believe it or not, you and ya man is close targets
|
| Juks everything, dice games, mini markets
|
| Fam gon' spark it, I’mma take whatever’s in the pockets
|
| Mostly the cash and the wallet, slide off the jewels
|
| Cuz you shining, begets and the diamonds
|
| Never deny niggas with iron… YO!
|
| Aiyo, chillin' with the Ceasar crew
|
| We can smoke, all in the halls
|
| It’s how many niggas with guns, got 'em on
|
| All tip top, cling to the fullest, mad bullets
|
| This is a hobby, the lobby where they clap yo hoods
|
| Get the paper, word to everything, we a acre up
|
| Barbequin' like a mutt, we ain’t taking nothing
|
| A high tech extremist, Gatorade, paid ya boy some money
|
| To lay up on the low, swinging beamers
|
| I need to be an actor, but instead, I’d rather be in Hempstead
|
| All of my bread came from crack barbers and shoppers
|
| So much beef in these whoppers
|
| Guns that’ll knock out floors and hit choppers
|
| What? |
| What? |
| The family remains, cuz it’s grain
|
| It’s automatic, I live it and I claim it
|
| It’s real, come around here, you bought here
|
| Yo, lay that half tape, then you will get wrapped real quick
|
| Aiyo, we hug the block on President’s Day
|
| Slinging all year round, gettin' that money the American way
|
| Might run up in yo wedding, grab the reverand and spray
|
| And let the shots fall wherever they may
|
| This is family, nigga, minus the mob ties
|
| The resurrection of Toney Starks & Trife Dies', starring in Part 5
|
| Niggas’ll rather die when they’re pride’s in question
|
| Try’nna play hero, getting stuck for they prized possessions
|
| Look you staring in the eyes of oppression, that’s why I ride with protection
|
| Extended clips, super sizing my weapons
|
| Five eleven, keep the heat tucked
|
| That’ll burn a hole thru ya stomach like acid reflux
|
| Get buried in ya cheap tux'
|
| We make it hard for you niggas to keep up
|
| Been thru a hundred towns, and running, beating the streets up
|
| Come up north in New York, down in Miami, pumping
|
| At a table, breaking bread like a family
|
| Florida, where we follow the code of the streets and
|
| Breaking the beats and, we taking the eats
|
| Never the least, we invading the streets
|
| Shaking the beast, we familiar for life
|
| We don’t run, we grab knives, my double edged spit life
|
| My dogs is real tight, shooting the dice
|
| Some of my fam might snatch ya ice
|
| Got family that go to church, come back like you don’t work
|
| Got family that’ll set you up, got family that chill, wanna spark the dutch
|
| Wizard my fam, that stuck you up, I got fam that’ll fuck you up
|
| Chop you up, put your body in the back of the truck
|
| Osama Island, we been wilding, see the violence
|
| We display talent, respect balance, nigga, Shaolin |