Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Victory 2004, artist - Diddy. Date of issue: 08.03.2004
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Victory 2004 |
| 10 years… |
| Yo the sun don’t shine forever but as long as it’s here then we might as well |
| shine togeher |
| Better now than never business before pleasure |
| P-Diddy and the Fam, who you know do it better? |
| Yeah right, no matter what, we air tight |
| So when you hear somethin, make sure you hear it right |
| Don’t make a ass outta yourself, by assumin |
| My music keeps you movin, what are you provin? |
| You know that I’m two levels above you baby |
| Hug me baby, I’ma make you love me baby |
| It’s ten years and we still runnin this motherfucker |
| Yeah! |
| One |
| As we procede to give you what you need! |
| One… Two! |
| It’s all fucked up now! |
| Yo! |
| What the fuck yaw gonna do now? |
| Yo, we can’t stay alive forever |
| So if shit hit the fan then we might as well die together |
| I’m high as ever, more hoes and more cheddar |
| G-Unit move around wit them pounds and berreta’s |
| Yea faggot, if I want it I’m gon' have it |
| Regardless if it’s handed to me or I gotta grab it |
| Don’t make a ass outta yaself tryin to stop me |
| I’m cocky, raps rocky, nigga you sloppy |
| You know that I’m, 8 levels above you nigga |
| I’ll club you nigga, I never heard of you nigga, ugly nigga |
| I’m the wrong one to provoke |
| And rattin on niggas is only gon' leave you smoke |
| So the only thing left now is toast for these cowrads |
| I got no friends, fuck most of these cowards |
| They pop shit 'till we start approaching these cowards |
| While we lay around dollars, they lay around flowers |
| In The Commision, you ask for permission to hit em |
| He don’t like me, him and wild wifey was wit em |
| You heard of us, the murderers, most shady |
| Been on the low lately, the feds hate me |
| The son of Satan, they say my killin’s too blatant |
| You hesitatin, I’m in your mama crib waitin |
| Duct tapin, your fam destiny |
| Lays in my hands, gat lays in my waist |
| Francis, M to the iz-H phenominal |
| Gun rest under your vest by the abdominal |
| Rhyme a few bars so I can buy a few cars |
| And I kick a few flows so I can pimp a few hoes |
| Excellence is my presence, never tense |
| Never hesitant, leave a nigga bent real quick |
| Real sick, brawl nights, I perform like Mike |
| Anyone -- Tyson, Jordan, Jackson |
| Action, pack guns, ridiculous |
| And I’m, quick to bust, if my ends you touch |
| Kids or girl you touch, in this world I clutch |
| Two auto-matoes, used to call me fatso |
| Now you call me Castro, my rap flows |
| Militant, y’all faggots ain’t killin shit |
| Ooops Cristal keep spillin shit, you overdid it homes |
| You in the danger zone, you shouldn’t be alone |
| Hold hands and say it like me |
| The most shady, Frankie baby, fantastic |
| Graphic, tryin to make dough, like Jurassic |
| Park did quick to spark kids who start shit |
| See me, only me |
| The Underboss of this holocaust |
| Truly yours, Frank White |
| We got the real live shit from front to back |
| To my niggas in the world, where the fuck you at? |
| Where my niggas is at? |
| Where the fuck my bitches at? |
| Where my bitches is at? |
| You know it can’t stay dark for long |
| They say it’s darkest before the dawn |
| Cars before the storm |
| I’m happy makes a bethus now preaching the song |
| I can see B.I. |
| rocking the Sean John yeah right |
| This is for life afters like B.I. |
| Frank White |
| Yo Bad Boy for life |
| No matter what the public say we gon prove |
| There ain’t another MC who could feel ya shoes |
| Cuz Biggie Smalls is the illest |
| Realest my stones and killas got homes and villas |
| Overseas and what was me I find out |
| Who found out other MCs been tryin to find ya route |
| This illman MC used to be on other shit |
| Took home «Life after Death» and they studied it |
| Listened to the double disk |
| Now they all spit like they all legit |
| Frank tell how we did! |
| We got the shit, Mac tight, brass knuckles and flashlights |
| The heaters in the two-seaters, with two midas |
| Senoritas, kiss rings when you meet us |
| P-Diddy run the city, show no pity |
| I’m the witty one, Frank’s the crook from the Brook' |
| Matty broke the neck of your coke connect |
| No respect squeeze off til all y’all diminish |
| Shootouts for twenty minutes, until we finish |
| Venice took the loot, escaped, in the Coupe |
| Break bread, with the kiss, Peniro, sheek loops |
| Black Rob joined the mob, it ain’t no replacin him |
| Niggas step up, we just macin them |
| Placin them in funerals, criminals turned aroused |
| The Brick City, nobody come off like P-Diddy |
| Businesswise, I play men |
| Hide money on the Island Cayman, y’all just betray men |
| You screamin, I position, competition |
| Nother day in the life of the Comission |
| I got a intergangstress who argue and steams wit reefer |
| And who flip when I call a bitch like she Queen Latifah |
| Not all the vehicle’s is long enough to stash the streetsweeper |
| This shit can get uglier than the Master P sneaker |
| We slidin through the ruckus, wit prada on the chuckus |
| Soon as spring break ho’s home from college wanna fuck us |
| I ain’t here to drop knowledge on you suckas |
| I’ll sick rottweiler’s on you fuckas, cops followin to cuff us |
| Top dollars to discuss this, whole lotta zeros |
| When it comes to paper I blow a soul outta aero |
| I’ma break before I lay floor burried |
| Besides, every rapper ain’t a star, nigga plad ain’t burberry |
| You can’t tame Lloyd, smokin by the big screen |
| You changin the channel looks like I’m playin the game boy |
| I know to watch botherin ya vision |
| You reach and I’ll put a dot on ya head like it’s part of yo religion |
| Why party wit a pigeon? |
| I’m blowin a 10 cuz Bush handin flyers for a party in a prison |
| I’m in the gucci vest wit the green and red straps |
| I’m the last rapper to scare niggas since Craig Mack |
| Now every morning’s a fast start |
| And there ain’t problem gettin dressed cuz my closet got more aisles than |
| pathmark |
| Run, when we startin a wave |
| And leave wit 12 shells in ya mouth like a carton of eggs |
| I’m the young pimp pardon my age |
| I don’t got long hair but if I did she be partin my braids |
| Niggas find what club they at |
| Take 'em wit us, and run a train on 'em like a subway mac |
| Get advances from grey Acura |
| See these record labels got most artists gettin fucked like the gay rappa' |
| I go the college on the tour |
| I’m goin down in history nigga, next to Wallace and Shakur |
| I keep ya ammo clean, text polished in the drawer |
| Camera’s by the hamper that mine into the floor |
| By now, you probably heard of me |
| Fresh outta surgery, flashy as a fuck, you gon' have to murder me |
| Burglary, I’m leavin wit cha nike’s bergendy, White T, bergendy |
| You match now, back down |
| Niggas love to hate you, but love you when you disappear |
| Catch me on the boat wit weed smoke and fishing gear |
| Heavy when I toke, C notes from different years |
| Besly in the robe, re-motes for liftin chairs |
| You ain’t rich, but we glad to snatch ya |
| I send cars to crib like I’m a cab dispatcha |
| You better off wit ya stupid guys, lookin for a coupe to drive |
| You ain’t gettin nuttin but ya french fries supersized |
| It’s a damn shame y’all still local |
| I’m in a million dollar studio layin my vocals |
| Nigga |
| >We got the real live shit from front to back |
| To my niggas in the world, where the fuck you at? |
| Where my niggas is at? |
| Where the fuck my bitches at? |
| Where my bitches is at? |
| Who got the real live shit! |
| Fuck yaw niggas wanna do? |