| Killer Ben mobbing with Big Twin, the verdict’s in
|
| Guilty all accounts for assimilating the illest men
|
| Rep the gods, king murders squads, gooniess to get it in
|
| It’s a Brooklyn Queen’s thing, outsiders we’re boxing in
|
| Cause we frost-slush, bear jacket claws
|
| Crisp corduroy, Armani sweaters from Michael Kors
|
| Times Square when the ball drop, spitting off the top
|
| Sipping out the whiskey flask, dead-ass if I’m drunk or not
|
| People push for supreme niggas who murder cops
|
| And for killers in pink housing, busting shots
|
| Make sure you get right when you approach a mark
|
| If you catch the drop you ain’t gotta shoot or belly talk
|
| I don’t fit descriptions of puzzle pieces that fit in
|
| Don’t respect a system that’s built on slaving and lynching
|
| Enlightened minds, assembly lines, they’re missing vital parts
|
| Soap box, Huey New Glocks fresh out the boondocks
|
| My tune knocks harder than feds raging in early morning
|
| Slipping with that work where you rest, flushing it down the toilet
|
| I’m trying to stack for a Porsche, so each must take the course
|
| Knock on wood, fuck boys thinking that I won’t pop them off
|
| And hitting rappers when Needles thought it was just a cough
|
| Weeks later on his death bed, thinking about dude he crossed
|
| Real niggas do real things, still reinforce
|
| This right here is like word Speakeasy, metaphors
|
| Broad day, witness the other side where the rest at
|
| Pillow talking you with your stock, we don’t respect that
|
| Be the funny faces of targets I wave a tech at
|
| Leave your body slumped like marijuana extracts
|
| Nigga I’m the best at terrorist stealth, calm attacks
|
| So go ahead and embarrass yourself
|
| And it’ll be your very last looking
|
| Heavy landed I land bows expose you to this OG ass whupping
|
| Monster more, more monstrous pan I endure
|
| The more energy the monster absorbs
|
| Magnetic infinite lord, burn out your light bulbs
|
| From turning up, turn up nigga that’s what your life is for
|
| Passport pussy on deck, running through roadkill
|
| More bills from doing songs with nigga with no skills
|
| Verse slick, slide it my way, I’m like «Why not?
|
| If it’s whack it’ll never see the light of the day»
|
| Ayo legendary land shark lacerate literature
|
| When my hand spark, scribble the signature on your landmark
|
| Beat the play clock, multiple strips
|
| When I’m on A-block, the handle in switched to Mookie Blaylock
|
| Wild fire from bird flame to blickie
|
| Outfit is Freeway Ricky but more tricky
|
| One-way traffic, moving through the city with a package
|
| You could smell the money through the plastic
|
| Yeah, black ski-mask, Black leather jumper
|
| Getting tea-bagged by a groupie bitch, Brian Pumper
|
| I’m back, slick-talking over rare grooves, rare tunes
|
| Porno music, middle finger in your rear-view
|
| Banana in your tailpipe, frail type
|
| Catch a shell cause your boasts don’t sound right
|
| Photo finish, a menace with the hashtag
|
| Trending, you can get a credit to the kids, it’s… |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Message for the People, artist - The Alchemist. Album song The Good Book, Vol. 2, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп