| Niggas, grab your dick if you love hip-hop
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| Bitches, rub your titties if you love Big Poppa
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| Gotcha open off the words I say because
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| This type of shit, it happens every day (Check it out, uh)
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| Now who smoke more blunts than a little bit?
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| What are you a idiot? |
| Listen to the lyrics I spit like M1's
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| Got mad guns up in the cabin
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| 'Cause Cease ain’t the one for the dibbin' and dabbin' shit
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| I make it happen, you got your ass caught
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| All you saw was fire from the Honda Passport
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| Or the M.P., what if you see, then I miss ya
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| I blow up spots like little sisters
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| Gwaan grit ya teeth, gwaan bite ya nails to the cuticles
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| Like Murray, my killings be the most beautiful
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| Junior M.A.F.I.A. |
| clique thick like Luke dancers
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| Niggas grab your gats, bitches take a glance at
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| The little one, pullin' over in the Land Rover
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| Playin' Big Willie style with the chauffeur, you know what I mean?
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| Stack the green, read all between the lines
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| A nigga act up, makes the bastard hard to find
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| Niggas, grab your dicks if you love hip-hop
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| Bitches, rub your titties if you love Big Poppa
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| Gotcha open off the words I say because
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| This type of shit, it happens every day
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| Niggas, grab your dicks if you love hip-hop
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| Bitches, rub your titties if you love Big Poppa
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| Gotcha open off the words I say because
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| This type of shit, it happens every day
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| How ya livin' Biggie Smalls? |
| I’m surrounded by criminals
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| Heavy rollers, even the sheisty individuals
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| Smokin' skunk and mad Phillies
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| Beatin' down Billy Badasses, cracks and stacks in masses
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| If robbery’s a class, bet I pass it
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| Shit get drastic, I’m buryin' you bastards
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| Big Poppa never softenin'
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| Take you to the church, rob the preacher for the offerin'
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| Leave the fucker coughin' up blood and his pockets like rabbit ears
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| Covet the wife, Kleenex for the kid’s tears
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| Versace wear, Moschino on my bitches
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| She whippin' my ride, countin' my ones, thinkin' I’m richest
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| Just the way players play, all day, every day
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| I don’t know what else to say
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| I’ve been robbin' niggas since Run and them was singin' «Here We Go»
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| Snatchin' ropes at the Roxy, homeboy, you didn’t know?
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| My flow, detrimental to your health
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| Usually roll for self, I have son ridin' shotgun
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| My mind’s my nine, my pen’s my MAC-10
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| My target, all you wack niggas who started rappin'
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| Junior M.A.F.I.A. |
| steelo, niggas know the half
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| Caviar for breakfast, champagne bubble baths
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| Runnin' up in pretty bitches constantly
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| The Smalls, bitch, who the fuck it was supposed to be?
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| Niggas, grab your dicks if you love hip-hop
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| Bitches, rub your titties if you love Big Poppa
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| Gotcha open off the words I say because
|
| This type of shit, it happens every day
|
| Niggas, grab your dicks if you love hip-hop
|
| Bitches, rub your titties if you love Big Poppa
|
| Gotcha open off the words I say because
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| This type of shit, it happens every day
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| I used to pack MACs in Cadillacs
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| Now I pimp gats in the Ac’s, watch my niggas backs
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| Nines in the stores, Glocks in the bags
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| Maxin' mini-markets, gettin' money with the Arabs
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| No question, confession, yes it’s the lyrical
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| Bitches, squeeze your tits, niggas, grab your genitals
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| Proteins and minerals, exclude subliminals
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| Big Momma shoots the game to all you Willies and criminals
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| I kick the really with my peeps all day
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| 325's roll by with the windows down halfway
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| D-K-N-Y, oh my, I’m jiggy
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| It’s all about the Smalls and my fuckin' nigga Biggie
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| Bitches love the way I bust a rhyme
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| 'Cause they all in line screamin', «One more time!»
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| Niggas, grab your dicks if you love hip-hop
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| Bitches rub-a-dub in the back of the club, straight up |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Player's Anthem , by - Junior M.A.F.I.A.. Song from the album Conspiracy, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп