Lyrics Pitt Mobb Freestyle 2 - Solomon Childs

Pitt Mobb Freestyle 2

«Go 'head and bounce, homey, get up out of here.
We got ya back.»
«What?»
«It's like that»
«Oh no you didn’t!
Wait a minute.
no you didn’t!
You disloyal fool-ass, bitch-made punk!
You think you can do this to me?
Who the fuck you think you fuckin wit?!
OH SHIT!»
Uh, yeah, time for me to do this, man (fuck it) uh
This for them gangstas, stick 'em up
You want money?
Get it up
You want bitches?
Have 'em strip for it
You want the top?
You gotta work for it
You could do what you wanna do, but say what you wanna say
Betray who you wanna betray, but don’t have come looking for you
This is dedicated to them gangsta rappers
Slash gun packers, slash hoe mackers
Reality check, you phony, soft as cooked macaroni
The homey’s back, please, let me murder 'em homey
With that war paint on your eyes, like it’s some kind of baseball game
Shame shame, make believe, street credibility
Imposters, street crimes, imposters of the graveyard grind
All of a sudden everybody wanna talk about the guns they got
How many cats they popped, how much bank they took
How much juks they caught, how much coke they pushed
How much bush they stabbed, you a bitch, nigga
We ain’t never heard about you on your own block
We know about you on your block, you ass
Come get me if you really think it’s real
Come on and find me if you really think it’s real
We want blood for this shit for real
You go by watching me, we don’t watch you
You front about the things you do…
See you ain’t gotta perprate no fraud for me
Cuz your time is up, out with the old, in with the new
Murdered by repertoire, kill no matter who you are
I’m ready for the scandals, West Brighton, Staten Island
Murder capital, nine millimeters, aligator, leather handles
This what it sound like, when the enemy at your doorstep
Look in my eyes, rude boy, I wish you would flex
I will murder all eight of you bitches, man
I ain’t playing with you bitches, I’ll come out the realm, hair dripping
I haunt you like the little girl from The Ring
It’s like you want the world with venom
And you can taste the sting, Solomon King
My trigger finger, itches like I got athlete’s feet on my palm
Staten Island, broke in again, sound the alarm
Soldiers of Viet-Kong, B-Town, ya’ll hear it
Word to motha, keep on fronting and you spray it out, New York City climax
The lights out, lights on, nigga lights off for you
What you gonna do?
Come on, nigga, uh… come on