| Well I got a new kinda square dance rap
|
| Gon' talk smack, flash my gat
|
| I’m finna spit and hold my dick
|
| And heat shit up like a thermostat
|
| Grab your partner by the chaps
|
| Give your partner a pimp-slap
|
| To symbolize the ghetto trap
|
| Step to the right, give three claps
|
| Kids jam-packed in tenement shacks
|
| Ain’t shit cooking on the stove but crack
|
| This is the bat this hell beget
|
| 'Cause bosses are kleptomaniacs
|
| Two by two Promenade
|
| Duck from a B1 bomber raid
|
| Ain’t 'bout the plans Osama made
|
| Banks getting paid off petrol trade
|
| Circle eight, do-si-do
|
| How much cash could a o-z grow?
|
| 'Til all are fed and all have beds
|
| My skin is black, my star is red
|
| FBI coming round the outside
|
| Which one of us finna die tonight?
|
| Is we finna fight over crumbs to bite
|
| Or make a whole muthafucking world ignite?
|
| Everybody throw them blows
|
| Right upside your partner’s nose
|
| By now you’ve got bloody clothes
|
| Crabs in the barrel so the story goes
|
| Think of all their savage acts
|
| Grab 'n scratch from average cats
|
| Bureaucrats with strings attached
|
| Walk in place, light the match
|
| Everybody get down low 'bout the level of your toes
|
| These dance moves we usually do are not the ones that we have chose
|
| Grab on to that beat and grind, try your best to stay alive
|
| We can’t run, we can’t hide, might as well just stay and fight |