| «Where are you?» |
| «Hey, there you are!»
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| «How does it feel to know you only have a few more seconds left to live?»
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| («Big L» — Cut and scratched)
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| I stay jeweled up, pockets swelled up from banks I held up
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| Plenty bitch-ass niggas Big L stuck
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| I never catch cold feet when I hold heat
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| We roll deep in a triple black dark tinted old jeep
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| I catch a fag three o’clock in the morn
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| On the block all alone and put a Glock to his dome
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| Tell him, «Give it up quick, you nitwit, don’t try to get slick
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| Or I’m a let this four-fifth spit and leave your shit split»
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| Prick, it ain’t nothing decent about me
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| A true thug for real, you can ask the precinct about me
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| A rap junkie, don’t try to play me like some flunky
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| Jewels be chunky, pockets lumpy, attitude grumpy
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| Mad niggas be fronting a lot
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| Popping mad shit, tryna be something they not
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| Your faggot ass better stick to dancing, don’t even look at me
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| I might break your jaw just for glancing, that’s right
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| In '97 Harlem kids is blowing
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| And we don’t trick, we’ll let a bitch starve till her ribs are showing
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| («Lord Finesse» — Cut and scratched)
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| Heated divine mastermind that turn nickels to dimes
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| The authentic genuine that’s out to shine
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| The cool cat, the true mack, the smooth raps
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| Chickens be like, «Who that?» |
| I be doing my thing, kid (True dat)
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| Forget fronting, I’m beyond that, I roll with brothers ready for combat
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| All for eye-to-eye contact
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| With skills, G, yo it’s ill see, for real B
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| Ain’t no barbecue, niggas better stop tryna grill me
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| Huh, sent that style to the essence
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| Got niggas stressing my style, pull like fluorescents
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| No question, tough type to clutch mics
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| The positive upright, I’m the «I don’t give a fuck» type
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| Expose the facts, you know the haps
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| Could go to laugh astrological, like the signs in the Zodiac
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| Your rap crew out the stack loop, word up
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| My style’s tighter than a fat bitch in a cat suit
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| Suprise G, it’s not wise see to size me
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| When I operate, it’s Smooth Sailing like Ron Isely
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| Gotta do my thing, word up (Beg ya pardon?)
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| Time to bounce, gotta skate like Tonya Harding
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| («A.G.» — Cut and scratched)
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| Yo I’m the cleverest top ten terrorist
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| Chickens ever diss they become featherless
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| Hate derelicts, certified gold medalist
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| You play fly cause I’m the most high like Everest
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| Look at all these fakes, musically you imitate the Crates
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| Won’t succeed moving at full speed with no brakes
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| Like Jake, watch me take your entourage
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| Can’t see me, I’m camoflauge and besides, I’m God
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| Mad hard like the S.A.T. |
| who have shorties
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| Caught up in the mental, watch her bless A. G
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| Evidently you still don’t know because you tempt me
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| Thought you was the boss when your fat thoughts were empty
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| Not Fat Joey Crack but still Jealous One’s Envy
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| Who sent me? |
| D.I.T.C., good and plenty
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| Like the doctor, smoke a Spike Joint and watch «Clockers»
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| Get rude like Shabba, make moves behind my blockers
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| Crazy sickness, you want the pure, you’d better pick this
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| Bitches can’t get this, faggots remain dickless
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| («Fat Joe» — Cut and scratched)
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| Before we get started, let’s talk about these coward-hearted
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| MC’s that claim to be true O.G.'s
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| And war specialists forever bust your guns on the sack of shit
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| But when the beef come, get on the ___ before I protest your licks
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| You know the deal, I come with nothing but the real
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| Certified pejente, recognize mi gente
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| Whether East Coast or West Coast, I’ll make 'em all strip naked Bitch niggas
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| will never get respected
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| Joey Green bagging devils up in Bowling Green for all is clean
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| Cock the 9 soon as I seen his Rolie gleam
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| You know the team, never giving a fuck
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| Laying thick in the cut, get your shit laced up
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| What the fuck!
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| («Diamond D» — Cut and scratched)
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| Yo I’m flipping on niggas like treys of crack
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| My raps react on your cardiac like a heart attack
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| Some niggas front for stunts
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| Who want to take a puff of the blunt and play a nigga like a chump
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| But I don’t play that shit with no chicks
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| Sucking the next nigga’s dick, moving bricks
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| I’m too slick for you high school dropouts
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| You got knocked and tried to cop out
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| Couldn’t fight when the kids pulled the mop out
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| And wails you out, writing home saying, «Bail me out»
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| Little small time, fucked up when you called mine
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| D Squared, one of the Greatest of All Times
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| Yeah, D.I.T.C. |
| representing for the '97, word life |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song 5 Fingers of Death , by - Diamond D. Song from the album Hatred, Passions and Infidelity, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп