| Exclusive, S. Childs, believe me
|
| That’s right. |
| come on…
|
| Yeah… Body town… New York City
|
| Yeah, Broadway & Henderson, get ready
|
| Got my own killa slang and dances
|
| Certain hammers for certain circumstances
|
| These the roads of Allah deeds, knawahmean?
|
| I took the advances, and bulletproofed the Suburbans
|
| No handouts, stay earning mine
|
| The hood hate to see a nigga, shine, now I know
|
| That a hoe, gonna always be a hoe
|
| And twenty three’s, can’t fit on an '98 Tahoe
|
| And ain’t no superstars coming off Apollo
|
| And chicks frontin' 'round the way with them tongue rings
|
| Don’t swallow, my mind was raped as a child
|
| Rocky could of never beat Apollo
|
| The feds could of never caught Alpo
|
| P. Diddy would of never fell for a bird like J-Lo
|
| Shit, this power to the peso, woola heads representing
|
| Staten Island’s criminal slums, we got the dirtiest sweatpants
|
| But bet we got bullets in the guns, a ass full of jums
|
| Blood all over your burberry, do what I gotta do to eat
|
| Eat what I gotta eat, nigga
|
| Yeah, yeah… heh… Bless Entertainmment
|
| Yeah, exclusive… arms, the click
|
| S. Childs… twenty oh three… |