Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Commission, artist - Shyne. Album song Shyne, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 19.04.2005
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Bad Boy
Song language: English
Commission |
| From cuttin' solid Purico to stack Fritos |
| Went from grams to kilos |
| Mac in one hand, in the other hand grands and C-notes |
| Game got my eyes wider than a 430 Buggy |
| No tellin' what the fuck I’ll do for this money |
| Stay posted up close with killers and cut throats |
| The thoroughest bitches who in they pussy stuff coke |
| As I cook and cut coke with the bakin' soda Arm and Hammer |
| Palmin' hammers |
| Think you crazy? |
| nigga, my clique’s bananas |
| Takin' over with the Mafia |
| Hittin' niggas for they bricks like Gracias |
| The cockiest, it’s obvious, it’s me, he, who? |
| Confront frontin' niggas like «You want it? |
| well nigga, me too» |
| What the fuck, I’m callin' your bluff, niggas act like they stopped |
| Makin' guns after they made yours |
| I’m sponsored by the NRA, DOA rules |
| Grin and stand over your coffin like «Hey you!» |
| Tell the Devil I’m comin', keep it hot |
| For now I got my eyes on a billboard spot |
| Don’t stop |
| Die for it |
| Take the stand, lie for it |
| Blow trial, get up in the chair and fry for it |
| Never tellin' or snitchin' |
| Rather swim with the fish’n |
| Mothafucka respect it, the commission |
| (First 4 lines with Jamaican accent) |
| I buy and sell bricks with my nigga P. D |
| Down with the team called B.B.E |
| Now if you want to join the team you know you must see me |
| Buy ya can’t talk to FEDS or dick R.I.D.E |
| It’s a cold World baby boy, fuck it, I’m colder |
| Animals on my back keep my warm, my armor |
| Frank Lucas persona, warmin' coke up in the sauna |
| Let me warn ya, trip against my team you’s a goner |
| Infact it’s drastic |
| A couple Million in the mattress |
| With a sick dick I say fuck taxes |
| Rather endulge in duct tape pig tie tactics |
| Crime pays |
| Nigga, Nine-Hundred and Ninety-Nine ways |
| My destiny’s vague, will I survive or blow trial? |
| Lay shot up, Puff cryin' in denial |
| While my enemies smile, buried in style |
| Gucci suits and cufflinks |
| Sneakin' drugs through Heavens customs |
| POP POP POP! |
| warning shot, who’s to blame |
| Shyne mothafucka, don’t forget the name |
| Stretch the Caine, to cop the house and the plane |
| 'till my Massacre, slain |
| Brains hang from the window of my Range |
| Fuck the FEDS, 2 green and one red |
| Firm tight, hold the dice in this game of life |
| Aces suffice |
| Paper’s a must |
| Fallen Angels and Angel dust |
| My team do dirt to avoid layin' in the dust |
| Bumpy Johnson portraits in my fortress |
| Of course it’s Po |
| Bloodstainin', aeroplanin', Four-Hundred horses slow |
| Platinum cable, round table, so all the bosses know |
| I’m takin' over |
| Cause they coke got too much bakin' soda |
| They say money ain’t everything |
| You fuckin' right nigga, it’s the only thing |
| In God we trust, the Holy thing |
| I look into my enemy’s eye |
| Let 'em know, «You play fly, you go out Kennedy-style.» |