Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Organized Ryme Pt. 2, artist - Shabazz the Disciple. Date of issue: 20.07.2009
Song language: English
Organized Ryme Pt. 2 |
| Yo god, I’m tryna stack and get a castle, cook lyrical keys in the lab |
| Bag 'em on 2 inch plates, DAT’s too |
| Organized rime, time is money |
| Hustle nickels of vinyl, cassettes are dimes and a CD’s a twenty |
| Yo, I used to roll with the thugs, who sold drugs |
| And put slugs in dealers who turned squealers |
| The cap pealers, high rollers, big money wheelers |
| Niggas who’ll spank a nigga, in front of his moms without feelings |
| The transporters, importers and exporters |
| Putting hits out on P.O.'s, judges and sargeants and news reporters |
| Most of the Gods I used to do crimes with |
| Ended up in Sing-Sing infirmary, getting their asshole stitched |
| Wifey with a switch, ya godfather turned snitch |
| They up North, while we out in New York, trying to get rich |
| I worked my way up from grindin and measurin |
| Credit card schemes and crimes and embezzlin |
| I kept climbin Sugar Hill to get the treasures and |
| Striving for diamonds and a million dead presidents |
| Some left murder weapons, fingerprints and evidence |
| Hot hit with 25, the feds sabotaged their residence |
| Scrambling to get the cream, kept the rap dream |
| Living on 2 planes of reality caught in between |
| Wanted the best of both worlds chasing material |
| Snake niggas play the priest |
| Throwing the dirt at my burial |
| My world consisted of sex, lust, money and l’s |
| Now I get lifted off exodus 20 and 12 |
| My role models, were the brothers on the corner who sold bottles |
| Out on parole the mind and soul of aristotle |
| Red Hook was like a mafia flick |
| Never got to cop me a brick |
| We used to plot to stick poppi and shit |
| Sitting pretty in a white land, my man had the right plan |
| Flights to get his head right in white sands |
| Sipping cristal, pimping a pistol |
| Till his ass got shipped up to fishcale |
| He used to cop 2 bricks watch his chips pile |
| Now he sit in a cell, praying for a mis-trial |
| When DEA rushed the crib we flushed an ounce on them |
| Handcuffed in the hall and we still tried to bounce on them |
| Hit rock bottom then we catch another loan shark |
| Scale our rocks, to get a 8 ball hit the pawn shop |
| Street dreams weighing a cake on a triple beam |
| Heat schemes, playing for papes my team crippled fiends |
| Investing money into street stocks, my peeps used to keep Glocks |
| Slap you up and give you speed knots |
| In the diamond district yanking ice chains |
| The Gods used to heist trains |
| Then late at night stick the dice games |
| 5 bombs of lah and rock up in the mailbox |
| C.O.'s had niggas sell rocks from their cell blocks |
| Most of the gods got bagged and got indicted |
| Some had open cases out of state and they got extradicted |
| Some tried to fight it, blew trial on their appeal |
| Got uncorrect bails, for smuggling guns and direct sales |