
Date of issue: 21.06.1999
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Wu-Tang
Song language: English
Am I My Brothers Keeper |
Eh yo, eh yo, eh yo |
Yo, yo, yo |
My son want his back, fuck that (my shine is beautiful) |
It’s time right now, you know? |
It’s like we ain’t fuckin with no lame ass niggas no more |
Bein bullshit by bullshit niggas (for real) |
Am I my brother’s keeper? |
Theres no need to ask, I’m the creeper |
Million dollar man, Johnny Cash |
Puff the reefer, sometimes mix it with the hash |
Hard to keep up, 100 yards dash, beat your feet up |
Jumpin Jack Flash on a muthafuckas ass |
Caught 'em in the weed stash tryin to tap the bag |
Now he suspect, read him his rights, it’s only right |
I never, never, never in my long-legged life |
Ever bite like shark niggas, got an appetite |
For destruction, lusting for dough, it’s disgusting |
Disgraceful, end of disscusion, this tasteful |
Like cyanide erase you, pull up, let me take two |
Come all you faithful, Meth and Shyheim |
Tommy Hilfiger, that I’m a Johnny 'field nigga |
Till I die, S.I.N.Y. |
testify |
Girlfriend sweating my game, killing my high |
I’m a 100 proof, like Smirnoff blue label |
I’m so wild, got housearrest bracelets on each ankle |
I break you, something fatal and make New Jersey trade you |
You don’t got game, so niggas don’t playa-hate you |
Come back to Brooklyn, the ya G’s gone |
Chase you up, batted in dun, dun |
Nike won’t endorse you so you rock an And-1 |
I pull out the M-1 and hit you handsome |
Cuz you forcin it, you can hang it up like an ornament |
End your actin career, put you back in street tournaments |
Run for your life, like you doing suicides |
When even use your scrub ass, Live '9−9 |
Am I my brother’s keeper? |
There’s no need to ask |
I ride for my brothers, give me the gun and the mask |
We be in the bushes like The Down Low stash |
Pop up like a warrant, let off on that ass |
Yo. |
Y’all could catch the player Inf' way beyond calm |
Sharp and on bomb chron, rockin my Sean John |
Copin the bomb chron from Sharon on the quan |
Got me chinky-eyed like a Hong Kong don |
Fire arm palm, cock back caution |
Alarm for the chumps, boy what you think you gon' palm with my charms |
Better pay attention to the harm in my palm and it’s fully-loaded |
If I said it, could he hold it? |
But once he seen the gun I said, «son, look he bolted» |
Son, look he noted, the Berrettas’ll shever, but he was clever |
He stopped screwing and he blew in his vendettas |
His crew was in to leathers, Avirex and guns |
Some of them was smart but I could say the rest was dumb |
So I played the vest for dumb and saved the checks for dumb |
Cuz they hard-head niggas who graze and steadily come |
To be leakin something, you could care for speakin |
Frontin bout shit they stick, instead of zip they lip |
They was young niggas, you know the young dumb niggas |
Who don’t care how they get it as it come, nigga |
Hey, hey… |
Are you that little guy makin all that big noise? |
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