| Yo god, I’m tryna stack and get a castle, cook lyrical keys in the lab
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| Bag 'em on 2 inch plates, DAT’s too
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| Organized rime, time is money
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| Hustle nickels of vinyl, cassettes are dimes and a CD’s a twenty
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| Yo, I used to roll with the thugs, who sold drugs
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| And put slugs in dealers who turned squealers
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| The cap pealers, high rollers, big money wheelers
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| Niggas who’ll spank a nigga, in front of his moms without feelings
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| The transporters, importers and exporters
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| Putting hits out on P.O.'s, judges and sargeants and news reporters
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| Most of the Gods I used to do crimes with
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| Ended up in Sing-Sing infirmary, getting their asshole stitched
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| Wifey with a switch, ya godfather turned snitch
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| They up North, while we out in New York, trying to get rich
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| I worked my way up from grindin and measurin
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| Credit card schemes and crimes and embezzlin
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| I kept climbin Sugar Hill to get the treasures and
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| Striving for diamonds and a million dead presidents
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| Some left murder weapons, fingerprints and evidence
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| Hot hit with 25, the feds sabotaged their residence
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| Scrambling to get the cream, kept the rap dream
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| Living on 2 planes of reality caught in between
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| Wanted the best of both worlds chasing material
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| Snake niggas play the priest
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| Throwing the dirt at my burial
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| My world consisted of sex, lust, money and l’s
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| Now I get lifted off exodus 20 and 12
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| My role models, were the brothers on the corner who sold bottles
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| Out on parole the mind and soul of aristotle
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| Red Hook was like a mafia flick
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| Never got to cop me a brick
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| We used to plot to stick poppi and shit
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| Sitting pretty in a white land, my man had the right plan
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| Flights to get his head right in white sands
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| Sipping cristal, pimping a pistol
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| Till his ass got shipped up to fishcale
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| He used to cop 2 bricks watch his chips pile
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| Now he sit in a cell, praying for a mis-trial
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| When DEA rushed the crib we flushed an ounce on them
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| Handcuffed in the hall and we still tried to bounce on them
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| Hit rock bottom then we catch another loan shark
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| Scale our rocks, to get a 8 ball hit the pawn shop
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| Street dreams weighing a cake on a triple beam
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| Heat schemes, playing for papes my team crippled fiends
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| Investing money into street stocks, my peeps used to keep Glocks
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| Slap you up and give you speed knots
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| In the diamond district yanking ice chains
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| The Gods used to heist trains
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| Then late at night stick the dice games
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| 5 bombs of lah and rock up in the mailbox
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| C.O.'s had niggas sell rocks from their cell blocks
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| Most of the gods got bagged and got indicted
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| Some had open cases out of state and they got extradicted
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| Some tried to fight it, blew trial on their appeal
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| Got uncorrect bails, for smuggling guns and direct sales |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Organized Rime Pt. 2, artist - Shabazz the Disciple. Album song The Book of Shabazz (Hidden Scrollz), in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп