| Yo, the shottie rip, perforate the skin on top of your ribs
|
| Red stuff come out his ribs like a Hollywood script
|
| Bitch-niggas on the floor screaming for mommy and shit
|
| Cardiologists hook up the heart monitors quick
|
| Thermometer temperature dips below 76
|
| That’s what you get for telling niggas that you better than Bis
|
| Not possible, if I can’t pronounce it, it ain’t rhymable
|
| The audible probability probably ain’t probable
|
| Supreme rap, G Rap, underground without a rule
|
| Shopper proof, holding hip-hop for hostage, 'bout to shoot
|
| Helicopters stabilized at low altitudes
|
| Talking to the negotiator, laying out the rules
|
| In a tight compromise salute, road-block with troops
|
| Under orders not to shoot, but they break ya vertebrae with boots
|
| Ten o’clock news flash, Bis and G Rap
|
| All punch bullets are lookin for them niggas in black
|
| Lean back in the avocado El Dorado, passing the bottle
|
| Speakin Japanese like Nomi Masho
|
| She got a banging body, cold sushi with warm saki
|
| If I’m rappin sloppy, she got me
|
| Welcome to my world, danger and hazards |
| Gang of bastards, banging they ratchets
|
| King and the Jacker, slanging in traffic
|
| Claimin they cabbage, obtain half, they aiming for stackage
|
| Get brains from the addict, keep blinging with karats
|
| Cops aiming the 'matics, then let ya dame have it, flames to the attic
|
| The stains on ya fabric, the paint in the graphic
|
| Canibus and G Rap banging a classic
|
| And if that beef on the street hate you enough, blow out ya brain in ya casket
|
| Don’t you love this drug element?
|
| Where slugs crush ya melon and dome, chrome that’s known to break bones in an
|
| elephant
|
| Shotgun pellets and, gunsmoke, smell the scent
|
| Big bullets, wiggle ya guts like gelatin
|
| Cut through ya skeleton, knock out ya intelligence
|
| Ride, stand and bite the dust
|
| Jake wanna be like a Russian cuffed on that Riker bus
|
| We raised in the slums with haze in our lungs
|
| Raisin the guns, knowin;
|
| My day’ll come, razors under the tongue
|
| Clips in the steel, bricks in the wheels
|
| Chips in the field of fortune
|
| Dead men walking with hits on the grills
|
| Late night at the spot, posted with goons, dope and balloons |
| Coke and the doom, scheme I’ll leave you open with wounds nigga
|
| Witness G Rap put it back in perspective
|
| Beat up shit with a dash of the peppers
|
| Get blast for ya necklace, leave ya brains on the dash in ya Lexus
|
| We up in the club, dash for the exit
|
| Make ya spread 'em out, show you what this lead about
|
| Take it from an old thug, whoever clean cold blood, believe they bled it out
|
| Crave for the war, pop out rages with fours
|
| Hit the jackpot, blazin the raw, gettin bands in the pores
|
| Bitches and whores with dick in their jaws
|
| The frame drank sick of Valor, straight bandit spot
|
| Open up shop, turn the block to Planet Rock
|
| Shit with no chop, slept with the Glock with the hammer cocked
|
| Servin the fiends, hop in the Suburban and lean
|
| Look at that don nigga swervin in Queens, player
|
| Ballin a lot, brawling for props, calling the shots
|
| Hit the curb, birds all on the flock
|
| Jockin, like «who that there covered in all of them rocks»
|
| It’s royalty bitch, fall on the cock, recognize one
|
| Giacanna G Rap, that live one, pay homage |
| Get it fucked up, I spray comments, nigga what?!
|
| (Nigga what, it’s the Curriculum!)
|
| Yo, e’rything is e’rything my nigga
|
| I ain’t bitter, but if I gave you the finger it’d be behind the trigger
|
| Faggot-ass nigga living in a gated community
|
| Up in radio, telling them what you gon' do to me
|
| I live in the 'burbs
|
| Clean my Winchester every other weekend with the same dirty Hanes shirt
|
| It takes two to tango, three to jump rope
|
| Four to bury the body, plus look out for po'
|
| Yo I guard everything within the limits of my post
|
| My orders is to smoke you if you get too close
|
| The whole globe scared of my flow, spirit world scared of my soul
|
| Nowadays it’s like I’m scared to be known
|
| The methods of my motivation is completely subjective
|
| My perception is completely parallel to perspective
|
| Rhyming is the reason I spit in faces
|
| Habituation of my flamboyance without rational reservation
|
| Whiskey, X-Ray, yankee, Zulu, unusual
|
| Word-ologically my syllable position is beautiful
|
| Only respect niggas if the feeling is mutual |
| G Rap snatch the jewels from you, I’ll throw 'em in the crucible
|
| Prolly throw you in there too, mix it up and make nigga-stew
|
| If you can’t admit I’m iller than you
|
| Baby you sparred with the shadows, Canibus and G Rap bro
|
| Motherfucker professionallin with the pro’s
|
| Know it’s, dough over hoes, bankrolls, Rovers and clothes
|
| And shots blow all them cowards and foes
|
| Giacanna proud with the pros, foul mode
|
| We quick reachers, spear with the fearless til you drip liters
|
| Flip divas, the big secret, strip to they tits and beaver
|
| Sip Cris' and sniff coke of the peeter
|
| Yeah we ball big baby, look off the meter
|
| You should see us, it’s movie star status
|
| Scar lackers lost cabbage, rip the Pablo Escobar fabrics
|
| Froze the road we chose, not a pretty route, Diddied out
|
| Grimey and grittied out, stack dough, jiggy out
|
| Dime bitches behavin like ya sex slave skizzied out
|
| Some nigga dizzy south, til he’s out, busy mouth
|
| Swerve to the curb, hit the bird split the kitties out
|
| We kidnap for trap — blackmail for a gang a mill |
| Spot banger himself, fishscale rocks under the fingernails
|
| The blood trail lead to a corpse
|
| Treat my appetite for greed with a torch
|
| For keys to a Porsche, to breeze in the loft
|
| Roll up my hand sheets with the force
|
| We squeeze off, no need for remorse, playa
|
| Forty wild goons, with forty Calhouns
|
| You die forty foul dooms for forty coward moves
|
| Bless sparkle, and spark until my shorty style rules
|
| Giancanna dead? |
| Widespread, I’ll be a 40 mile tune nigga
|
| What, what nigga? |
| The noble laureate
|
| Coming at y’all niggas.
|
| Uh. |
| 40-pound style nigga… |