Lyrics Peter Luger - Billy Woods, Bond

Peter Luger

Shadow pocket hit the 718, like 510 and fill in your tape
Time to rap hella great, drives to keep Sway and Tek away
Or we all start to hallucinate, I rap long enough to dig a whole
In your crates, copping big button drugs, you got a dub and shake
Thems the breaks, dodge city got my go-go dub plate
Niggas like fuck Billy, he still owe me from '98
Oh man you fitting to menestrate, take this roach
Now we straight, youngin' you know mom still eying my cape
I just known rocket’ll late, up top got me out of shape
But I can go back to squatting with weight, put race in jakes
Sorry, slang blurry, I mean the bowl but honestly
I’d rather do shoes with the high and dro, watch the Barry White pro
Sipping ice cold, nice with milkshake flows, the brain freeze MCs
Kids nasty reminiscing over golden shower
Talk smooth enough to move a kilo or flower
Time Square rush hour, big gun, little men, and cowards
Paid back spitamat coming for hours, the Charles Bronson conscience
Hold up, I know you ain’t still talking that nonsense
N.Y. is full of beef now, Africa don’t have sacred cows
I’m in the big chair like Mao, sixty-nine stolen rollies
‘Bout to hate you now, it’s a lot of mumble heads talking ‘bout Pac
And flunk niggas trying to take five shots
Got the vest to match the Glock, couple rounds how you ran old block
You go there with them undercover cops
Same one you need just to go to the spot
No wonder you say you hot, backwoods I’ll be with the trees negro please
I got six degrees separation between me and these MCs
Mostly with Dennis bottle, Baldwin novel, chilling in the
The words ring hollow, copied and borrowed
They’ll be better tomorrow, but right now darkness reigns
I got nothing to lose but your chains, affiliated with ice in my veins
Frying pan to the flames, fuck jacking beats, we need planes
Destination John Brown things, they hang him in the rain
Babylon use they brain, cotton or cocaine, a rose by any other name
007 what I tell you, right now I got this all day
Fully automatics for your cabbage, Peter Luger
It’s what’s for dinner, medium rare black ninjas
Only corpses and winners, let’s eat