| They call me F-A-Beezy, sometimes Stizzo
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| The wrist on freezy, neck on glizzo
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| The coupe move easy at two-double-izzo
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| Truck look cheezy
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| And it’s jacked up like it sit on stilettos
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| Can’t you see the glit' on the pebble that sit on the bezel
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| None of you little scraps couldn’t get on my level
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| Take more than a hot song to try to sit on the devil
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| Got respect when I killed «Money, Power» the first time
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| When they tried to knock down the towers the first time
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| And the only reason I’m talking 'bout it
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| Is so you know the real talk of New York’s about it
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| I’m with a bitch, with a tight ass that shakes
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| Her suck game will one gulp: White Castle shakes
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| Got the home right past the lake
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| When I came they stop us, this time might blast the jake
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| I’m the nigga on the couches in clubs
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| And I stand out from the rest of the slouchers and scrubs
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| Bottles and bottles with a train of pretty hoes
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| That look like they could be amazing videos
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| We in the caps with the Yankee logos
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| Blowing on the stanky dro dro, the pinky snow-globe
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| And you know the link be so «oh»
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| Niggas look fast but the blinks be slow-mo
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| I could spot a kinky ho though
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| All hood bitch, she just tryna make you think she SoHo
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| Plus I know the game like the back of my hand
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| When I’m lazy, you can catch me in the back of sedans
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| When I’m gone, you can bet I’m coming back with a tan
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| With the Mickey D signs on the back of my pants
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| And I act like the man, 'cause this my time
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| Plus the hood say they miss my dimes, it’s young money
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| Yeah, DJ Clue
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| Desert Storm (is this what you want, man?)
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| Y’all can’t fuck with my wolves, man, for real (huh?)
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| Come on y’all, yeah (is this what you want?)
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| Now niggas say they in the hood like Mister Softee
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| They in the hood getting treated like Mister Softie
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| «I clap the four-fifth», if you believe that
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| Then you believe Rick James died of natural causes
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| I’m twisting up trees-chronic to switching up ebonics
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| Started in the fifth grade, switching up etonics
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| Know a few dudes that’ll spit at your dome
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| So go see 'em if you really want invisible stones
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| Try and get at me to hit him
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| Just type forty acres and a mule in your navi system
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| My hood—they kidnapping your kids
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| See, we try and Tom Cruise and Jamie what collateral is
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| Whack dudes in the game is a problem
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| But they like Maurice Malone jeans, their name will stay on the bottom
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| Murdering that? |
| Nah, heard him, he’s sub-par
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| Coyote Ugly rappers, keep working at your bars
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| & Paul Cain]
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| (Yeah) Yeah, y’all know who it is
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| Uh-huh (SLK)
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| Motherfucker, I’m Cain (Paul Cain) fuck
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| Cain got the heart of a soldier, mind of a general
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| Strategy is important, timing is critical
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| We wear tracks out, lyrically I’m a beast
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| From Brooklyn’s backbone, epitome of the streets
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| Only the strong survive, if you physically weak
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| You get gunbutted, stabbed, shot, and critically beat
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| 'Cause listen, ain’t no shook hands in Brooklyn
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| Presidential with the matching bullet bracelet, it’s a good look, man
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| Call me whatever, I hustle and I rap a little
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| You see the color stones chain look like a pack of Skittles
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| I give 'em anthrax, every bar is that official
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| I know I’m a gangster, I ain’t got to pack a pistol
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| I don’t rap in riddles, I give it to a nigga
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| Straight, no chaser, I’m like Hen' on the rocks
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| If it ain’t the fifth, it’s probably the Glock
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| I’m the nigga Clue and Duro call when they need the bodies to drop
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| If it ain’t the chain, it’s probably the watch
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| When I ride if it ain’t the truck or sedan, it’s probably the drop
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| Play the block, I don’t party a lot
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| I’m the one who sent the goon with the snub to get the jewels from the club
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| I could never blow all my dough
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| When I get at least ten people robbed at all my shows
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| And all I know: money, clothes, birds, and cars
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| Running from Po’s, champagne, furs, and R’s
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| Quite sure you must’ve heard of the God
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| If not I’m Cain, Triangle Offense, I’m a third of the squad
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| I’m the first line of the defense, the star point guard
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| Is back starting, y’all be used to riding the bench
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| fuck that «no women, no kids» shit
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| When the shotty blows, everybody goes, business is business
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| But dig this, fuck a guilty conscience
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| I’ll put a slug in you, really give you something to live with
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| Fuck street fighting, I pull a hammer in a split second
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| The kid breathe fire, and speak lightning
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| These niggas ain’t writing
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| All they did was analyze my flow, and use my style so their liking, nigga
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| Fuck (yeah), yeah
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| (Desert Storm) Cain
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| Ask about me
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| Now the year’s new, I laid my game flat
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| I want my spot back, take two, motherfucker |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Oh My God , by - Joe Budden. Song from the album Mood Muzik Vol. 1, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп