| I started in the park
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| Two turntables and a microphone makin it art
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| (I'm a gangsta)
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| To keep my money strong
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| What needs to be done, carry a mic and a gun
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| Yo, yo, yo, I’m all hip hop nigga but all thug
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| Slap the shit out of venus for thinking its all love
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| A B-Boy and a gangster both officially now
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| Have your body full of holes like they spots on a cow
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| Since I was a child ive felt that I was fallin, father please forgive me
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| Jailed for robbing an organ donor for his kidney
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| Too angry, kicked out of anger management class
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| As I reduce once thought of invincible armies to ashes
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| I was the type of kid had spray paint can in one hand
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| And a nickel plated 380 in the other one
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| Thats when the trouble come, when broke had to hussle some
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| They brought my mum for questioning, she like «not my son»
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| I’m the man dog, done songs with Big L and RZA
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| Dangerous as hemophiliacs running with a scissor
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| Sit back sip your liqour you quicker than the third millenium
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| Keep my pockets weight up, guns blasting you to oblivion
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| Blame it on the world we’re living in for coke distributing
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| Married to this music, bout to have my third kid with it
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| Doctors delivered it to conquer any lyricists
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| It’s my turn but I made it like Texas hating the Dixie Chicks
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| There ain’t enough math invented to count ways I ain’t feeling you
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| But I show you love every day by not killing you
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| Skills is miniscule
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| Over an instrumental you
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| Harder to understand than Lennox Lewis talking in an interview
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| I got inditements you dont wanna be me
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| I spit sick youll probably catch SARS of my CD
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| Syllable sorcery still street, any beat getting laced
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| Left my mark on the game like that mole in the middle of Enrique Iglesias face
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| From carrying crates for Afrika Bambaata Zulu Nation '88
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| I penetrated the game at a crazy rate
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| From the place of Whitneys Houstons drug suppliers
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| Old New Jersey made me great
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| Of course the labels made me wait I never hyperventilate
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| Cos they holding no weight like they hustle in outta space
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| Nelly dissing KRS1? |
| We gotta stop him
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| Whats next, Beyonce battling Rakim?
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| Yo, I’m a B-Boy but I wild on niggas thats what they pay me for
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| But I ain’t no backpack cat wearing Jansport
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| Your mans taught you it was silly to try me
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| Shit won’t be pretty like India Irie
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| Me dying, ive got nothing to lose
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| Put me in heaven with Barry White being on the hook singing to sell your cruise
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| Over a beat or two Jam Master Jay produced
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| Your crew had me outnumbered what the fuck was they excuse?
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| Now I’m feeling a mess, imprisoned by my own success
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| Fame done killed more celebrities than any bullets through holes in stess
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| In one moment or less for my scrill you kill
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| But HipHops like Sway and Tech flexing Felly Fell
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| Emcees studied me well, but still
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| Give me credit like when I tell the world I studied Kool G Rap and LL
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| Or Forrest Whittaker naming his first son Denzel
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| Cos people hear me all over your records like I’m Pharrell
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| XL blowing up is probable, yet philosophical
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| Ashanti shaved her sideburns so anything is possible
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| B-Boys and gangstas throw ya hands in the air
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| I’m from Jerz, the home of «I couldve swore I parked my car right here» |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song B-Boy, Gangsta , by - Chino XL. Song from the album Poison Pen, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп