| Ayy, yo
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| It’s DJ Kay Slay, The Drama King
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| The Living Legend, representin' for the culture
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| And culture is a way of life
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| Sheek Louch, set it off
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| Ayy, yo, peace, Lord, how y’all been?
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| It’s been a since we talked so I figure let me grab my pen
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| Basic shit, drinkin' liquor, talkin' shit at the games (Facts)
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| Couple niggas doin' good but the rest is the same
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| Still fly, heart emojis and a bunch of flames (Donnie)
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| I got a shit load of money but I barely do chains
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| Nice watch, workin' hard, like to sleep on the planes (Uh huh)
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| When I land, light up and get greeted with brains
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| Ha, Donnie, the Lionel Richie of the Commodores (Sheek)
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| For twenty years I been hotter than Bahama floors
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| O.G., so I was probably in your mama drawers (Ha ha)
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| Been gettin' money since Ruff Ryder Cash Money tours (Woo)
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| Dead, and I still let that cannon off
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| Whole clip, I don’t plan on goin' back and forth
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| Google me, nigga, ain’t nothin' 'bout me been soft
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| Sincerely yours, hope this letter make it up north (Sheek)
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| Swervin' through traffic on the Saw Mill
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| Headed to Yonkers
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| Styles P, let’s go
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| I ain’t have a trap but I had a crack spot
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| I was movin' black tops playin' black cop
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| Seen a top on a lap before a laptop
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| Over bloody money, niggas let the gat pop
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| If you on the frontline, never back block
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| Then you better have a gat or be a sasquatch
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| We was have-nots, now we have knots
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| Smokin' weed in the hatchback with a glass top
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| I still pay homage to all the Reaganomics
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| Flashbacks await, the H’ll make 'em vomit
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| Pushin' the whip color like SuperSonics
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| Smokin' Gary Payton while I’m playin' Delfonics
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| Even when I’m lyin', bitch, I’m bein' honest
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| I ain’t with the drama but I’m with the honor
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| You should know that I got the llama
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| I’m burnin' money and I’m burnin' scama
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| Cruisin' across the Brooklyn Bridge
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| Shouts to Marcy’s own Sauce Money
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| Let’s go
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| If it’s money on the table, I’ll assault y’all kitchen (Uh)
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| For niggas with bright ideas, I’ll off y’all switchin' (Uh huh)
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| Tryna block moves from gettin' Sauce more chicken
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| Underhanded niggas like they Softball pitchin' (Woo)
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| You got a job for haters, you better hire 'em swiftly (Come on)
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| 'Cause once we locate 'em, then we expire 'em quickly
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| I’m the one, akh
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| Without a gunshot at Curtis
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| This is how it sounds when you fire at 50 (Woo)
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| I open-palm haters and suckas get backhands (Yeah)
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| I pick off emcees to pick on rap fans
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| You find your stomach shrinkin', let me help you with your thinkin'
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| Sometimes my punchlines turn into lap bands (Talk to 'em)
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| Niggas worse than hoes, fuck what he tell she (Fuck 'em)
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| Sucka for love, niggas want T-L-C
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| You could keep dreamin', but I’ma keep leanin'
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| And keep heat steamy while screamin', «Free LG»
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| Pushin' up that West Side Highway to Harlem
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| Nino Man, Twelveth Street
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| Let’s go
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| Yo, they say I’m the chosen one like Neo
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| Nah, bitch, I’m Nino
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| Trapped out the Rio, crack rocks of kilos
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| Niggas send shots and miss, they better reload
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| 'Cause when I send shots it’s, they gotta relocate
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| Wait, I move like I’m runnin' late
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| No time for nobody, I’m sorry, I want the cake
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| I mean, I’m not even really sorry, I’m bein' fake
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| I mean, how could you ever be sorry for bein' great?
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| I mean, they be knowin'
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| I could slide in they main dame when the baby showin'
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| Can’t even stay in they own lane and they be bowlin'
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| Don’t ever loan 'em a damn thing 'cause they be owin'
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| That’s why they lady hoe’in'
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| I can’t believe all this hate I see
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| I got the juice over here, you gotta drink Hi-C
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| I’m with your boo gettin' head like a state I. D
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| Look, I could never be fake, I’m me
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| Nino Man
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| You know how that bike life go down
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| One wheel up in the sky up Lenox Ave
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| Vado, let’s go
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| Yo, unleash your fingers with pressed keys
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| Chains on galore before it was just
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| Be in Hell’s Kitchen cookin' up like the
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| Off-white shirts lookin' like they 3X tees
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| Yeah, we now orderin' less weed
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| Fiends movin' fast on the water like jet skis
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| I’m the type to eat with you, call for the check, please
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| 'Fore you send your soldier in, make sure you check these
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| Bitches gettin' kicked to the curb in they best Birken |
| Move to any county in Jers' except Bergen
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| Pull up in that Maybach pearl with the red curtain
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| Ask niggas they networkin' or neck workin'
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| Tryna cop numbers, I’m hopin' the net workin'
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| Bus comin' in every day, the connect workin'
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| Huh, understand the mindstate
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| Now you could understand the crime rate
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| Doin' 90 down the turnpike to Philly
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| RJ Payne, represent, bruh
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| Payne
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| Tre Eight snub clean the buildin'
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| Clip full of slugs, they think it’s Serena Williams
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| Shit is like a drug, been tryna repeat the feelin'
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| Termites in a barrel, these bullets’ll eat your ceilin', Payne
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| Every rhyme is stellar, different kind of fella
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| Dillinger with the six-pack, the Teyana Taylor
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| Medusa face on my Versaci, word to Donatella
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| My chicken got these niggas sick, shit is salmonella
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| When you this damn special, they can’t catch you
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| I fight and I shoot, Van Damme and Van Exel
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| Out the park shit, grand slam, it’s ancestral
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| Dead a man, them rubber bands, these hands stretch you
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| Fuck who nice, nigga, who play greater?
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| Slay said he need a verse, it came two days later
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| I let these sucka niggas prove they haters
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| Diss me on Monday, they read about you in the Tuesday paper
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| Payne
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| Fresh off a flight front Flint, Michigan
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| Jon Connor, close it out
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| Let me just set the record straight
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| My résumé is the best to date, nigga, let’s debate
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| Michigan, I’m from the water-is-lead-infested state
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| Where niggas rather be dead than safe
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| Starve and dyin' over bread and cake
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| Judge know he gon' send you to the feds before the lawyer even pled the case
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| Adrenaline buildin'
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| Connor back killin' these niggas with Slay
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| And I know you was missin' that feelin'
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| They like, «He got a deal and went missin'»
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| No, he got a deal and they tried to convince him I needed permission to finish
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| the vision that Allah intended
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| You got it, I get it
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| And I will admit it, that Connor just prob’ly ain’t meant for the system
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| Peep my position
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| Disappeared and came back like a fuckin' magician
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| Mad with a swag like you fuckin' my bitches
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| You thought with the toughest intentions, predicted to tuckin' your dick in
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| when shit get in sync
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| Them be the niggas I hate and be talkin' the loudest
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| See, most of these niggas is cowards
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| Keep runnin' your mouth and they buyin' fresh caskets and flowers
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| Warnin', I just took a bottled water shower this mornin'
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| Flint shit, the reason behind all the passion when I’m recordin'
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| Pissed off, so I’ma let your bitch fuck me 'til my dick soft
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| Porn shit, long-ass tube socks and won’t even take my kicks off
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| If you ask me, the universe gave y’all four years to try to pass me
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| And now that we back on course, I’m fuckin' y’all over with no remorse
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| A boss, I own my own shit
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| Now I ain’t gotta postpone shit
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| Revolution on my mind like the black fist on the comb pick
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| It’s finna get ugly
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| This time they not takin' it from me, this ain’t for the money
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| This time, I’m fuckin' they bitch while I’m doin' the Dougie
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| This the preview of the shit I got comin'
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| Gone |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Back to the Bars, Pt. 2 , by - Dj Kay Slay. Song from the album Living Legend, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп