| I gotcha!
|
| Uh-huh, huh! |
| You thought I didn’t see ya now didn’t ya? |
| Uh
|
| Uh-huh, huh! |
| You tried to sneak by me now didn’t ya? |
| Hehehe
|
| Uh-huh, huh! |
| Now gimme what’cha promised me
|
| GIVE IT HERE, C’MON!
|
| Yeah, yeah
|
| Yeah, uh, you know it’s all terrific
|
| Know it’s… yo
|
| I just wanna see you pump yo' fists
|
| I don’t wanna hear y’all talk no shit
|
| I just wanna get on stage and show the gift
|
| Show the gift…
|
| I’m the type of nigga that’ll click-click ride wit’cha
|
| The type of nigga that’ll smoke that lah wit’cha
|
| The type of nigga that’ll bust that nine at’cha
|
| Spit that line at’cha, hit that fi-i-yah
|
| Yo, aiyyo whattup, God? |
| No love? |
| Odd
|
| You can’t sell crack on the block no more
|
| Cause I pulled up, parked, rolled up, sparked
|
| Dogs barked, OH SHIT! |
| NARC’s
|
| I Jackie Chan up the wall and sit in the dark
|
| Or go runnin for a jog while I spit in the park
|
| My jigsaw still hard, the metaphors remain sharp
|
| Give you sharp pains through your brain up your slang box
|
| Me and you in the sandbox, with our hands locked
|
| Get the same shit your man with the broken hand got
|
| I bang Glock, I been hot
|
| Cocked back Mai Ling from Bangkok
|
| Mind grow, but the fat-ass can sit up front
|
| Your broad that look like trash can sit in the trunk
|
| I’ma fuck 'til I break off chunks
|
| Break off a big chunk of skunk and take off with a blunt
|
| Hit the studio, sometimes I work all day
|
| Still change my voicebox oil every 3K
|
| Step to the stage, throw a sign to the DJ
|
| Everybody screamin out — do what the weed say!
|
| The type of nigga that’ll set up shop wit’cha
|
| The type of nigga that’ll pace the block wit’cha
|
| The type of nigga that’ll pass the Glock to ya
|
| Stash the rock for ya, nigga I gotcha
|
| (This is!) The ghetto-ass shit for you baby
|
| The hood love it, so I gotta give it to 'em daily
|
| I’m on the block, like Olajuwon and Ewing
|
| I’m a pimp bitch, by the way, how ya momma doin?
|
| Like Rakim Allah, I’m a «Microphone Fiend»
|
| The fuckin «Last Dragon» like Leroy Green
|
| That Mausberg kicks, rearrange your spleen
|
| Now you on part of the Handicapped, Olympic Team
|
| I got a, deadly disease without a vaccine
|
| It’s called
|
| You runnin game, all I’m sayin is where your fuckin team?
|
| This that dope, somebody and let the lyrics fiend
|
| I’m livin dreams from a stroke of the pen to get the cream
|
| You garbage, I turn the channel when you come on the screen
|
| Flow so pure, cause I’m fuckin with raw
|
| Suited up, booted up, and I’m ready for war
|
| Yo 'Bis, let’s get it live, grab the tec-9, what else?
|
| The Glock 9, and the double-axle forty-five
|
| Bend your mental from the beginning to the end
|
| It’s connected to the beginning like infinity symbols
|
| I keep it simple, don’t wanna offend you
|
| Cause niggas don’t understand what they ain’t in to
|
| (Misunderstandin, is still a form of understandin)
|
| But y’all niggas don’t hear me though |