I need it from the top, AHHH!
This is history baby
Commissioner Steve Stoute, Lenny - ha!
Gods Son, whattup?
D-Block, whattup?
Bravehearts, whattup? Yeah
Yeah, yo
Yo aint nothin but trouble God
When I kick in the door with D-Block, Bravehearts and the Double R
Dont make me let the machine off
This is methadone music that you can lean off
"Made You Look," the remix with me up on it
I copped your shit, now I break weed up on it
And everything is real I see
Like my niggaz that been home but they only got a jail ID
I helped the game, it aint help me
Im top five dead or alive and thats just off one LP
And, I still buzz, they feel cuz
Cause they know the flows Ill just like Will was
Im just tryin to make sure that my sons wealthy
Out of shape but I make sure that my guns healthy
Im a ape, you cant stand Kiss
Comin through the hood in a Aston Vanguish the color of dandruff
They said we jumped him, I just let the gun snuff him
Copped P then turboed soon as they uncuff him
This goes out to all of your mans
Why put you in the verse when I can put in a coroner van
D-Block
THEY SHOOTIN! Ah made you look
You a slave to a page in my rhyme book
Gettin big money, playboy your times up
Where them gangsters, where them dimes at?
Yuh, woo! Its time to go, Luda lets go!
Im from the school of hard knocks, sneak peeks and low blows
Where Xs mark spots and kitchens mark Os
Where love is gon getcha and hate is gon snitch ya
And fingers squeeze triggers like boa constrictors
Its the, Mr. Luda, Jada and Nas
And our bullets give you a deep tissue massage
So hear a song and dance while I make these ends
You never stood half a chance like Siamese Twins
AHHH - THEY SHOOTIN, look in the barrel
Then he made the front page of the Miami Herald
or Chi. Tribune, nozzles with silent doom
We in that A-Town Journal-list, filed with goons
You should print my information, quote my rhyme
And keep me in between these New York and L.A. Times
I was the victim of society, its Cris the menace
With mo shit out on the streets than evicted tenants
WOOOOOOOO!
Uhh.. uhh..
(BRAVE-HEARTS.. BRAVE-HEARTS.. BRAVE-HEARTS.. BRAVE-HEARTS..)
Jungle, Wiz, Nashawn!
We got em scared look
We got em scared they runnin
Yo, I grasp the ratchet, the blinker, the biscuit, the burner
The heat, the toaster, the twister you meetin your owner
The banger, the hammer, the flamers I aim at the cannons
and can ya, manhandlin ya, youll be famous like cancer do
And cut, thats the end of your movie
Pretendin you actin like you and your mensll come shoot me
My tennis shoes Gucci, old school pea soup green
Jean Lee suit on Beaver, clicko champagne
Friday the 13th my CD drop, I rhyme to more Base than EZ Rock
Im Jason, call up P.D. watch
them Bravehearts, Jungle and Wiz and Nashawn
Ill Will rasta Lake, never revealin his face on
TV or pictures or even them niggaz
Sorry that I made you wait long, glad them fakes gone
WE SHOOTIN! Squeezin them triggers with Luda beside me
Me and Kiss get Luniz of weed, set to Styles P.
Tell him hold his head, Gods Son got him we made yall look
From San Quentin to Rikers Island to..
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