Lyrics Connect 3 - D.I.T.C., O.C., A.G.

Connect 3

Still here, played the hand I was dealt with
Hands on, but still never felt shit
I put it on in its proper place
New year, new deal, ‘bout to cop a piece
Police stop and ask you where you’re going
So focused, don’t give a fuck where you’re going
Where you sleep or where you’re hoeing
Or how you know firsthand from so and so and
The maverick, but I’m not from Dallas
But I still get love in Texas, no malice
The spit I talk is so callous
Three dimes in my kitchen, no Alice
Mr. Gorilla Monsoon
No raps for these lames, why
Haters, quinch up your face
Have toast to that, the loud will stink up the place
The legendary Diggin' In The Crates
Andre The Giant
A to the motherfucking G
A shine in the mental is A.G., dog
A.G.: I started out with Diggin' In The Crates.
You know, I’m still part of
Diggin' In The Crates.
Big ups to Fat Joe, O.C., Lord Finesse, Diamond D,
Buckwild.
You know what I’m saying
So go get it if you want it
But you won’t touch it if you can’t feel it
Talking ‘bout the spirit, listen close, you can hear it
All reliable is undeniable
Once they lie to you, then it’s checkmate
Like a slug when it penetrates your chest plate
You’re as strong as your weakest link
I try hard not to be the one to make a sink
Eye to eye with the struggle and I won’t blink
I just chuckle inside, give a little wink
See I can see the future with a panoramic view
The man in the mirror saying «damn, you’re the truth»
Cologne,, I’m right at home
Your favorite rapper can’t even hold my microphone
Smoke the loud and the demons get quiet
Hear god loud and clear, the room get silent
This side over here, say
On my side over here, say O. C
Crowd: O. C
Yeah and yo, I want the Brooklyn side on this side to say Big L
Crowd: Big L
Oh, one more time, we got to outdo that side
Dudes is legendary, but nothing like a folklore
Touched France where people say bonjour
The Netherlands where the weed and the dope stores
Half way legit, overlooked by Dutch law
My crew won an umpteenth passport
Twenty deep, rappers need a crash course
Born and bred in New York where the cost
Million dollar loss, paper down on the asphalt
Draped and fatigued, so I blend with crooks and thieves
BK nigga, indeed
BX, next to kin, first cousin, words summons ghosts
To anybody close that we consider brothers
Musical séance of some sort
Flying phase on admitted, they respond like a Ouija board
To the unseen forces, I advise you move cautious
Bad spirits make me nauseous