Lyrics Art & Life (Chi-Roc) - Twista, Freeway, Memphis Bleek

Art & Life (Chi-Roc)

Yeah…
Young Chris, M-E's, Free-Wheez… The boy Twista…
Holla…
My life on the track… (Okay…),
Up and comin'… State Prop…
Check game… (That's right…),
Get low… (Get low…),
It’s the Roc…
Better than ever (Holla)…
Yeah…
It’s the motherfuckin' Roc bitch, you hotter than us?
(Okay, okay)
Ever since a young buck, I been on the come up,
Known to dish the raw, dish the law if they come up,
And cheddar 'till the sun up…
If there’s a ransom and the law get involved, then we never get it summed up,
Never put ya gun up, if ya come round me,
I go to war wit' niggas 'round the corner from 'round me,
You can front 'round me, but I read through that,
Wit' the mili' and I ain’t talkin' 'bout no Segal mac,
Niggas see shoot back, we can see to that,
Hit yo front letters see through back, bring yo peoples back,
And I used to grind out on my friends spot, 'till he’s mom wanted my Tim-bots,
Now my paint got me discounts, or trans-quo all around the world,
like I was signed to
Pimp-dot,
And if it’s ten targets and I got ten shots,
I’m tryin' to leave at least hit nine out of them ten shot…
I got my mind on my money, money on mind,
But some say its a gift, I don’t write but I rhyme,
I, complete songs with just one try,
Tell 'em it’s no lie, I (beef?) all my life dog, I never think, it’s already
there,
I find ways to say-it, so you motherfuckers hear-it,
And when you hear it you feel it, you know its real (so…),
This is how I live it, how its pictured for real, (nigga…),
I’m shittin for real…
Diamonds against wood, underground king for real,
Big crib when I lay, yeah I’m livin' for real,
Trust me the guns come off the shelf whenever shit’ll get real,
Automatics and the extended clips, that’s what I’m hittin' wit',
Dummies in the black rhinoes,
(Yeah…) They be killin' shit,
Mask up kidnap shit, that’s how my niggas get,
Chi-town, NYC, that’s how my niggas get…
Yes, just picture me rollin',
The smith and wesson’ll stay goin' put a hole in yo chest,
It’s just, another hustle paper gettin' made and fold ya,
Mad, you street niggas finally made it,
I swoop five, he know the ride, heavily loaded,
Deliver pies like cake, they go straight through yo payment, (Yup…),
Chump… You don’t really wanna war,
With the State Prop clique, if ya clique shot us, (Why us???),
S-P game so damn tough, the 4 4 in the 5th tucked ya’ll cant hang,
Transporter turned rapper, get a can for to fill my life,
Still accomplished, wanna fill they cups?
The rap version of Mandela call my bluff,
Well still the street dwellers feel my pain (My pain…),
I spit a verse and split a clip in the rain,
A fool-proof when the full force open you (What???),
Twista will rock you, you don’t want the thug apostle to pop you,
Hostile when I drop you, turnin' everything colossal to fossiles,
I speak street gospel, all they life I spit words and paint portraits,
For real niggas that hold down they fortress and serve off of porches,
Hit 'em in the body wit' the powerful forces, that’ll end all your data,
Make you clean up your house, bag up an ounce, hit the dance floor and bounce,
We blessed wit' the talent, fuck wit this clique, it ain’t gon' be easy,
'Cause you fuckin' wit' Twist if you fuck wit Chris, Bleek and Free-wheezy,
So speak and breath easy… Or to shoot ya’s my future in 3D,
I like whore’s, I’m from a city full of Vice Lords, and GD’s,
Breeds, and Souls, 2−6's, Kings, GD’s and Stones,
Spanish cobras and all the true soldiers survivin' are gone,
Watch me spit if for the killers and hustler’s, flippin' all the pounds and
bricks,
Hate on me I’m gonna bust at you hoes, and I put eleven down wit' a clip,
Niggas servin' fiftys and hundreds, when I see you and I’m on yo tip,
Twista and this East Coast Regime, it’s that Chi-Roc shit