Lyrics The Steiners - Westside Gunn, eLZhi

The Steiners

El don’t hold punches, this that flying fists of fury
You wish I had no leg to stand on with no podiatrist to cure me
My life was like Eggs Benedict, crème brûlée to slam today
Tomorrow’s lobster macaroni, clam souffle and
Those truly wack, who swear they got the crown get their rubies jacked
My dogs’ll smack you up like a Scooby Snack
He face major or minimum slaughter
I wouldn’t hold my breath swimming in water
Wanna stay winning more than women wants a feminine daughter
Or men who wants a masculine son
To teach how to shoot baskets and guns for fun
You in the presence of a Jedi, gypsy read my palm and said
I’d make it past the age that most thought that I’d be dead by
That’s one year shy of the GOAT, born out in Bedstuy
And years after these artists overdosing off a med high
Ruined your dance, spoil your whole night, what’s in my loose leaf
Is hitting hard like it was rolled tight, something you shouldn’t take light
Different from what the fake write, similar to a snake bite
You rather me slow up and see my brake lights, then make flights
From Detroit to Buffalo, puffing 'dro
You in bad shape like my toughest fro
I’m well rounded like David Ruffin’s fro
Cuffing your main squeeze before my plane leave
I’m so cold, she slurp me up and catch a brain freeze
Then I stroke and smack it in a smokin' jacket
Oakland macking on some Coke and Yak shit
Boom boom boom boom boom
Ayo, .45 shells popping out, straight drilling shit
Lagerfield rocking head to toe, in the lemon six
PJ spilling, still a fish in the Fisker (skr)
Dragged it through SoHo, right in front of Kith (boom boom boom)
Reminiscing in my cell, I used to have the block clicking
Duffle bag full of hollow points was the mission (ah)
Ran up on him at his momma’s house, gave him the business (boom boom boom boom
boom)
He tried to give me 30 counterfeit for a chicken
No, no, no, no, three quarters Balenciagas
These never dropping, don’t even bother
Tied gloves on the chopper, Stone Island fishing
Then jump off brick, what I call a thousand dollar lineups
Chill, I done sold bricks for real
I took a pay cut when I signed my deal
This for the culture, you wouldn’t understand my sculpture
Uh, this feeling is torture, I’m ultra
Rhyming well, Blientele
Before I rat, I’d rather fry in Hell
What you know about laundry bags filled with mail
20 stamps’ll make you a book
You never ran the phone, you niggas was shook
You never ran the phone, you niggas was shook