| Talk about sex, packin' chrome, techs, hero' bones
|
| And coked up white chicks that look like Sharon Stone
|
| Washed up M.C.'s, whose styles have been grown
|
| Like 40 years old, still pickin' average poems
|
| And now it’s on, ya niggas wanna get beat
|
| Just bring that shit around 20th Street
|
| Don’t get me wrong, thugs come hopin' to bust
|
| But uncock their Glock when they know this is us
|
| And bitches, the girls keep the block jumpin'
|
| Somebody get shot, they don’t tell the cops nothin'
|
| So keep on bouncin', rock a 3−5-7
|
| That Biggie and Pac shit should of taught ya a lesson
|
| God yes, cuz pain is the object
|
| Watch 'em stay broke like elevators in the projects
|
| Everything we did, we did it the hardest
|
| This kid is retarded, hate all you want, we gon' get it regardless
|
| Representin' Jersey, ain’t no other state
|
| Before the love and hate, huawk, spit in ya mother’s face
|
| Ya life, what a waste, grab a knife, cut a snake
|
| No love the jake, I’m out to catch another case
|
| Outsidaz, only here to make their mark
|
| And run around this world like it’s Raceway Park
|
| Crash and start, front, chased by NARC’s
|
| Five deep, smokin' four blunts, it ain’t shit, take their heart
|
| Never catch us, regardless of the etch-a-sketcher's
|
| We out takin' vestes, makin' messes
|
| To each is own, we settle beef wit chrome
|
| Got niggas comin' out their Morese Malone
|
| Now it’s here like anything goes on the track
|
| Harriett step up to bring real rhymes back
|
| You know shit is bad when the rapper can say
|
| They ain’t even in the game for the lyrics anyway
|
| Well that’s okay, the underground stay shinin'
|
| Those runnin' for the door gonna end up resignin'
|
| And years later, I’m gonna still be the tighter
|
| Majority’s splurger, call it all the tax writer
|
| It’s the Outsidaz faculty
|
| Throwin' up the finger in ya magazine
|
| My click be pumpin' more whips than gasoline
|
| In the Bricks we knowin' for stickin' shit and havin' warrants
|
| For the props, we lick more shots than alcoholics
|
| I call it living, Iz, makin' a killing
|
| Off these twenties, I’m dealin' feedin' my children, Jesus is in 'em
|
| Eager and willin' to put ya muthafuckas in the fetal position
|
| Deeper then listen, when the Outz come through
|
| Niggas break dumb fool, pull out gun tools
|
| Makin' muthafuckas run jewels
|
| So the ending to the story, kid
|
| The worries bid, more niggas will get fit to our music |