Lyrics Trouble - Lota Nerv, SENSE, Fes Taylor

Trouble

I love what I’m doin'
I’ve always wanted to say
I started when I was about five years
Sense, man, gettin' it started
Y’all know the flow is retarded
So I’ma keep it goin' regardless
Who the hardest that you ever heard?
Maxin' out on every word
Still got a shotgun flow, mixed with a Dese verse
Gift wrapper or rappers, solo, clapper of clappers
The fresh Dickie suit is under the mattress
«Ain't Nuthin' but a G Thang», we bring surgeries
Gun clap, fall back, white tees, burgundy
These niggaz never heard of me
Still, they try and murder me
Teflon with the chest plate, try hurtin' me
Yo, you’re poop with the groupers, my live niggaz shoot with the shooters
You the type that’ll lose with the losers
A gift to producers, cuz music beats is like cars to the streets
It’s so natural, I flow at you
My little niggaz, man, they nuts like cashews
Cash Rules, we get up in these niggaz like tattoos
Aiyo, don’t ask if I’m down with the Wu
Just cuz I’m from Staten Island, yeah I fuck with Deck, but I rep the 4 and the
Catchin' me Hillside Scramblin', bitches like «Ooh!»
When I hop out the brand new, 645, tan and blue
The middle of winter, look I’ve got a tan too
She popped me with royalty cheques, look at my advance too
The year of the Warriors, every year the shit is gettin' cornier
Throw chicks in front of my shorty, make her hornier
This is a warning to ya, fake-ass rappers actin' like they want wit ya
'Til I blast, should’ve ignored the liquor
You saw the picture, front page, all of my niggaz
Like magazine covers, that’s why the streets love us
Some rest in peace above us, some in the beast and wonder
When they hit the streets who freakin' they baby mother
If we don’t got shit, still know we got each other
Haters try and block me like pucks but this ain’t hockey, fucker!
Welcome to New York, yao, welcome to New York
No disrespect to truth, but homey I am the truth, yup
They call me Lot-a, baby, that black .380 crazy
I’m smokin' like Frasier, you see all these damn haters bitch?
Cuz my watch cost a flick, and my chain cost a brick
And my bitch like Halle and Puffy mixed
You don’t really wanna go there, homeboy, ya too soft
Just like beef, I get it gone just like goof off
I’m in that two-door, draggin' along like two balls
«Murder Was the Case» of the song playin' by Snoop Dogg
Lot-a-Nerv, lot-a-money, lot-a-guns
Lot-a's ass?
Never that, y’all niggaz is fags
Yup, yup, Lot-a's gettin' cash, jealous niggaz envy, yeah
Niggaz wan' pop off, but we all know you fuck with shafts
Lon Dini sip Heini’s, hood labelled me grimy
Goons wanna send out some goons to outline me
That’s why when I step out the buildin' I watch behind me
God guide me, I mean that, greatest to ever rap
Live by my words, seen many people die on the curb
When I heard, mice, we left, man, I felt the ill surge
I guess, that’s why I go in the booth and spill it loose
Never pooly, on spot writer, I scribe fire
Fly attire I rock, heavy pistols I pop
Say a prayer for the peasents when the boss gettin' dropped
No more givin' dap to fake cats, lyrically aren’t the match
My Milli movement like powerful music, like only we do this
Step inside the square, half-cocked and smack stupid
Hear my voice, you can loop it, you’ll be makin' a hit
Send 'em digits through to Two 4 War, now we legit
Dini, LIS, Fes and Baby Pa, we killin' this shit