Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Miguel Sanchez, artist - Ghostface Killah. Date of issue: 31.12.2005
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Miguel Sanchez |
| Uh, thirty thousand feet up in the air, up in the lear |
| Dressed in a black tux, forty cal. |
| tucked, strapped to the chair |
| Half asleep, hopping out of my seat, caught in the daze |
| Turned around and seen a white man’s face, covered in shades |
| I must of passed out, can’t remember shit before I blacked out |
| Three more niggas approaching, holding they mack’s out |
| One spoke, gave me the keys, to a boat |
| Reached in his trenchcoat, and pulled out a yellow envelope |
| Which contained twenty thousand in cash, a photograph |
| Of a Colombian nigga with a long mustache |
| Miguel Sanchez, keep a gun hidden in his pants leg |
| With armed bodyguards, surveillance around his land spread |
| He runs a billion dollar organization, under investigation |
| Plus he’s wanted by immigration |
| Now I’m stuck, crazy look on my face, shocked in amazement |
| How the fuck I get involved with these federal agents |
| They knew my background, knew about what happened down in Sac Town |
| They knew about the wrap down south, they laid they backs down |
| Said I had two decisions, take out Miguel and his cartel |
| Or spend the rest of my life in prison |
| A classified mission on some James Bond shit |
| 007 style, love to get some straight convicts |
| Now I’m pondering, my thoughts wandering, got my girl on the phone |
| Told her to kiss little Jay cuz I’ll be gone again |
| Honey, I can’t sleep, she sucking her teeth |
| If everything go good, baby, I’ll be home in a week |
| Pinching myself just to see if I’m dreaming, call up my team and |
| Meet me by the docks in Miami, I’ll fly out this weekend |
| I got you nigga, four-four pop two niggas |
| That drug lord that we want, got a spot for niggas |
| And if we kill 'em, it’s back to the block, my nigga |
| He carried rugers, thirty four shots I figure |
| He only holla at the kid, when there’s money involved |
| They pack shotguns, hollow tips, dummies and all |
| When me and Trife doing right together, got no choice |
| But give us ten, like we selling white together |
| Left side, four-five, right, black beretta |
| Taking trips over seas, flipping packs for better |
| Every flight a hundred stacks and better, so grind hard |
| Get ya money up, get on your grillies, don’t mind odds |
| Fuck a cop car, throw on some chumpers, and drop charge |
| Hit the block hard, it’s kinda hard being G-O-D |
| If he owe Trife, he owe me |
| Load up the mack grounds, M-I-A, call that the jack town |
| Tell niggas I’m on my way, coming back down |
| Miguel, Mr. Sanchez, it’s a wrap, now |
| Theodore extorting your shit, handing out packs, now |
| I used to listen to 50 and jam «Back Down» |
| Now I slang fifty kilo’s where I’m at now |
| Fifty a wop, purple top, nigga, I’m back, clown |
| Crystal bottles, Grey Goose for the chat lounge |
| Channel seven news, older dude, murder gat found |