Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Tales Of A Hustler Pt. 2 , by - Beanie Sigel. Release date: 28.03.2005
Song language: English
Tales Of A Hustler Pt. 2 |
| [Beanie Sigel |
| Court casin. |
| Third felony facin |
| No probation |
| My heart racin like a blunt lacin |
| Hennessy and malt liquor chasin |
| My gemstar scarrin niggas faces |
| For a pound of trey eight and. |
| I throw bullets like Dallas Troy Aikman |
| The callous on my index stay achin |
| Niggas stay hatin |
| Got me late night pacin |
| I’m tight boot lacin |
| Mask on like I’m Jason |
| Shoot up shit like Larry Davis |
| You play the pulpit like Pastor Mason |
| Turn cheek like Martin Luther |
| I’m like Oswald sharp-shootin |
| Got my eyes on my mark in the dark shootin |
| Beam illuminate the target movin |
| Get your organs ruined |
| Move out like SWAT move in |
| Got them niggas on the back-block rootin |
| For the bad guy. |
| Playground legend like Sadait (?) |
| P. Kirkland… My MP state workin |
| Shootin-arm stay jerkin |
| My Nextel stay chripin |
| Can’t answer cause the feds lurkin |
| Its like we catchin cancer on purpose |
| Back to back chain smoking, nicotine feinin |
| Conversation with demons when I’m dreamin |
| Manic-depressive |
| Like the man upstairs tryin to pass me a lesson |
| But I can’t catch it |
| The game under break the pressure |
| They miss my presence |
| We still not promised tomorrow |
| Takin the bitter with the sweet up in these cold ass streets |
| We got lifestyles through our scars |
| We ride hard til our numbers get called |
| The lifestyle of a hustler… |
| I’m feelin like deaths in the air |
| Got me back to back buckin my squares |
| But I ain’t bitchin I ain’t scared |
| I ain’t budgin, in fact the thrill alone turns me on |
| Got me smiling, laughin… Clutchin |
| My toast and confrontin mother fuckers |
| Cock-a-roaches will not catch me laughin |
| Skinny and slim fram y’all get it the same |
| Cool niggas that’ll spin out they waves |
| Grimey niggas that’ll spin to they graves |
| Justifyin my foul ways |
| I got kids to raise |
| But motherfuckers rather see me sprayed |
| Than to see me pair (fucker) |
| Or see me on the front page like Sig |
| Or stay rolled DC with B. Sig |
| You bitch niggas stay PC when y’all see me |
| Until the day that they |
| Fit me in the grave and the city wreak of me |
| We got the city under siege |
| S-P or R-O-C |
| Poverty is a movie starrin me |
| Ride with no play the passenger seat |
| So y’all can see how my life so real |
| So y’all can see how my life so ill |
| (I came to chill.) |
| Tales of a hustler that’s me in the flesh |
| Got a Jag and a Caddy sellin dimes of the step |
| Niggas wanna take my block I had to earn my respect |
| So I put his cerebellum on his grandma’s steps |
| You know Oschino he’ll probly kill |
| Got the soul of Huey Newton nigga Bobby Seale |
| Nigga prolly take the stand he’ll prolly squeal |
| But I got four lawyers I ain’t takin the deal (Nigga) |
| We could strap without scrap or put the semi in it |
| Gun fully loaded like the Chrysler with the hemmy in it |
| I keep it ghetto like a 40 with the Henny in it |
| Went to school broke loafers on no pennies in it |
| Stood the coldest winter with the bummiest coat |
| Need food need shoes sold dummies of soap |
| Got tired of bein broke man life was a bitch |
| They bring you flowers when you dead but no soup while you sick |
| So I switched my whole picture get involved with the bricks |
| Not the ones made of semen but the ones who sniffs |
| Tales of hustler, niggas come for your jugular |
| If you sell one bag to they mother fuckin customers |
| State P we got the city on smash |
| Got every boulevard every street every ave |
| Got sneakers got clothes nigga you do the math |
| Push to hustle but the point is just to stack that cash |
| Tales of a hustler… |