| The tangible goods, that’s all I’m interested in
|
| Bronsolini and I’m better than the best of them
|
| With the power invested in me, '93 on the vest with the ski
|
| The watch spin perpetually, time for compensation
|
| Babies need shoes, Bronson keep pounds of weed only three brews
|
| Long jackets, curly hair like I’m Hebrew
|
| Fabric with the green ink had been the root of evil
|
| Gotta get it on the late night, sun rise
|
| Ain’t never trynna see the look of sorrow in my son’s eyes
|
| What about a refill of the ganja when the blunt dies
|
| New Yorker Mangold see me playing on the front lines
|
| Two sixty, five-eight, the beard gumbo
|
| Three pointers in the park for a clean hundo
|
| Cream Caddies, hookers in the back of it
|
| Spectacular shit, the resume immaculate
|
| Better have my money
|
| Quit the bullshit, it’s a stick up
|
| Better have my money
|
| Quit the bullshit, it’s a stick up
|
| Yo, vicious chowder
|
| Asian bitches sniffin' powder
|
| Bronsolene catch me creepin' at the sicko hour
|
| 992 is scripted on the balance
|
| Got talent, but all we really love is valence
|
| Laid in the palace like a sultan
|
| Polo on my back cover the Carhartt king
|
| And that’s for certain, hung like a curtain
|
| Pussies get the drapes
|
| Motherfucker know you in the Planet of the Apes shit
|
| Dusty bottles from a cellar in a foreign land
|
| Dr. Lecter, digging in your sister’s rectum
|
| Sweetbreads and capers, Martusciello to evade the danger
|
| But I really wanna taste the paper
|
| Golden bars from the treasury, spit cleverly
|
| I’ll leave it neverly, lappin' in the Beverly
|
| Deadly medley, mashing on the pedal, B
|
| Light on my complexion but I’m heavy on the celery |