Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song New York , by - Method Man. Release date: 25.06.2007
Song language: English
New York |
| Okay, Yeah, yeah, |
| Back for another one bitch, Let’s do it, Ha |
| Staten Island stand up,(okay) |
| Long Island stand up, (okay) |
| Jersey, Yeah, Brick City nigga |
| Funk Doc |
| Yo, I’ll start this rhyme with how y’all feel in this bitch |
| I’m finna to spit, got steel in my grip |
| But I ain’t talkin bout guns, I’m talkin mics, niggas stealin my shit |
| Then try to act like they ain’t feelin my shit |
| Now if we talkin bout ones, I’m Russell Simmons I be talkin in tongues |
| Fuck where you from and all the niggas you brung |
| Punk, My clan don’t sleep son, I put that on each one |
| Be cool until the heat come, these pussies might eat some |
| Nigga this is not pop music, unless your tryna pop shots to it |
| Why would you have that Glock and not use it |
| How could you hear this joint and not lose it |
| You stupid, You need to shot from cupid to get love for this music |
| Diamond in the ruff, Like iodine, Find me in the cut |
| If not, probably find me in a slut, if I buy me a Dutch |
| That means Mef Man’s back with the stuff, Lot of back talkin backin it up |
| Now I like bein the man, I like weed in my hands |
| I like my G’s in advance, But y’all don’t understand |
| Me no like, fake niggas that ain’t got the game right |
| Me no like, when y’all killas pop shit and can’t fight |
| Back in the zone, No backbone |
| He stepped on and spat on, niggas don’t last long |
| If I don’t get some act-right soon, I’m gonna act wrong |
| I ain’t tryin to get clapped on for makin these rap songs |
| If you’re misunderstood pimp, what would the hood think? |
| To know that I’ve been swindled, bamboozled, and hoodwinked |
| These rappers ain’t like me, they see that there might be |
| More to me then some Air Force Ones and a white tee, I’m nice B |
| 6 foot 4, Un-cut raw, pocket full of straws, I’m that nigga to look for |
| Want paper like a book store, ain’t never been shook poor |
| I switch from Method Man to Candy Man and the hooked off |
| Still ain’t nothin sweet though, Who wanna spit flows |
| First learn to put the weed inside the bag and then get dough, (Then get dough |
| motherfucker) |
| Tell your peoples and kin folk, I been dope, Anything else is an insult. |
| (God damn right) |
| So obnoxious that I’m toxic, Call that diarrhea |
| Spit that hot shit, cause I’m hot bitch, And got butter-fingers |
| Oops I drops it, load and locks it, Take the recipe that’s been concocted |
| Got women just like a vehicle, Topless |
| First You see what I’m worth, Pullin paper straight out the wood work |
| Until I push dirt, Shit I hate to fuck up a good shirt |
| But damnit I’m back, I done relapsed, Shot a dose of some murder I wrote, |
| Then lean back |
| I’m part Ghost, Part Cappa, RZA, And Deck |
| Part Dirty, Uey, GZA, Masta Killa, And Chef |
| But I’m all Mef, All vet, Killers I’m complex |
| Niggas, Have yet to blow up, Nothin but bomb threats |
| New York yall, Shoot or shank me, I bleed Yankee |
| I’m hot dog, Yall ain’t nathan to put it frankly |
| I find excuses to finally lose it, Then write exclusive |
| And he like VH1, You know behind the music |