Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song EPMD 2, artist - Nas. Date of issue: 05.08.2021
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
EPMD 2 |
| Bucket on low like Erick and Parrish |
| Closed casket flow, all you niggas get deaded |
| They don’t give you one single rose while you can smell it |
| So I pick from my own garden (Garden) |
| Wanna go out in my garden like Godfather |
| Grandkids and a Rottweiler got over the block trauma (Yeah, trauma) |
| So what you sayin', nigga? |
| You gots to chill (Uh-huh) |
| Thinkin' you the truth, really you not for real (EPMD!) |
| Back to back with it, the hardest shit of the year (Nasir Jones, remix) |
| EPMD, we back in business |
| Ain’t nobody fuckin' with us, come to your senses (Uh) |
| P is the second comin' of God, somthin' to witness |
| Piece of shit, fly on your had like Mike Pence’s, we in the trenches |
| I’m mad, better yet, I’m on a rampage |
| My people can’t even get minimum wage |
| Fuck a stimulus (Uh), give me some interest (Uh) |
| Give me a loan (Oh), give me a home |
| Give me that land you owe me so I can roam |
| So when you trespass, blaow, one in your dome |
| Best wishes, ghost 'em like he Tommy |
| Ain’t worried 'bout nothing 'cause Hit Squad behind me |
| EPMD, we back in business |
| I visualize what it is, not what it isn’t |
| We at the mafia table next to the kitchen |
| Eatin' Michelin Stars, countin' a million |
| Dun! |
| I let it go for the family, meetin’s at Cote in Miami |
| Them wine bottles on maggie, extra large |
| Sign up for my masterclass, Escobar |
| Feet up at Mets Stadium at my restaurant |
| Tied in from AZ to Dave East |
| You know my thoughts get crazy |
| My teachers, they couldn’t grade me |
| I know some Haitians in Dade County, got choppers in Haiti |
| She booked a flight to Colombia, made her body amazin' |
| Just to post it on Tumblr, this that «fuck up the summer» shit |
| I don’t care what you comin' with, me and Hit-Boy runnin' shit (Runnin' shit) |
| Big gold, rope chains, but they flooded now (Yeah; flooded now) |
| Pull up with the Ghost like a haunted house (Haunted house) |
| She gettin' scary, blood on my hands like Carrie |
| Might walk through a cemetery to see where hip-hop is buried |
| I said it was dead, but it faked its death like Machiavelli |
| You see letters in red splatter, look like sauce and spaghetti |
| (Yeah, ready?) |
| EPMD, we’re back in business (What?) |
| Livin' in cramped conditions, we’ll give you ammunition |
| I stock those shelves, I got more shells like Taco Bell and I’m not gon' fail |
| I got no L’s (Noels) like Christmas, you don’t wanna make the claws (Claus) |
| come out (Nah) |
| Y’all should call yourselves Santa (Why?) 'cause none of y’all are real (Nah) |
| Not a single one (Like what?), like a dollar bill (Yeah) |
| It’s like your bitch in the appellate court, she’s on a pill (Appeal) |
| We got her a bond and she’ll |
| Never bail on me (Bail on me), not even outta jail (Haha, jail) |
| EPMD, but me, I gots no chill (Ch-chill) |
| Just a lotta skrill |
| Lady, my paper’s so crazy, I just tossed a mill' out the window |
| Of my mobile on the fuckin' freeway on the way here (Yeah) |
| Like Rudolph and his homies when they pullin' the sleigh, yeah |
| That’s a lot of bucks flyin' when I’m makin' it rain, dear |
| Green on me but no weed, shorty, just these, darling |
| A pocket full of pills, some are Tylenol 3s, prolly two or three Molly |
| So some are E which reminds me of rap summary |
| Mami, my theme song, me and P |
| Always used to play that shit on repeat all day |
| So please call me «Big Daddy» (Daddy) |
| Plus I got the 'caine and lean on me (Yeah) |
| MCs, I’m eatin' you B-I-T-C-H's like tortilla chips |
| Me, I’m free of debt, yeah, green is on Chia Pet (Woo) |
| This is the effects of my old neighborhood misery index |
| Poverty at its peak, OCD and PTSD I guess |
| R.I.P. |
| out to DMX, Stezo, E and Nipsey |
| Ecstasy and Prince Markie Dee, MF DOOM, I hit 50 via text |
| Told him that I love him 'cause I don’t even know when I’ma see him next (Nah) |
| Tomorrow could be your death (Bring that beat back) |
| Yeah, and this shit ain’t for the faint |
| 'Cause the brain’s iller trained, killer, danger, deranged |
| And I drank all the DayQuil (Yeah) I blank on the paper |
| Then wait 'til the page fill up (What?) |
| Hate spiller shameful the strength of a pain pill or tranq' |
| I just pray for the day when I’m able to say that I’m placed with the greats |
| And my name’s with the Kanes, and the Waynes, and the Jays |
| And the Dres, and the Yes, and the Drakes |
| And the J Dillas, Jadas, Cool Js, and the Ras |
| And amazin' as Nas is, and praise to the Gods of this |
| Shout to the golden age of hip-hop and the name of this song is |
| EPMD, we back in business |
| I visualize what it is, not what it isn’t |
| We at the mafia table next to the kitchen |
| Eatin' Michelin Stars, countin' a million |