|
Y'all coward niggaz make a nigga like me laugh,
|
what the fuck? yea, yea.. chargin y'all niggaz
|
yea, yea.. behold the only thing greater than yourself
|
|
(Verse 1)
|
I'll slash ya grill, don't start me
|
You'll be the only entertainer with less groupies than Biz Markie
|
I'm never dull, Chino the pretty thug, style centerfold,
|
I'll have every latin in the country aimin at ya skull
|
I'll aim it at the Pope if he claimin he sellin the most dope
|
My Jersey blocks is locked tighter than prisoners hold soap
|
And listeners where we vote out ya CD and vinyl, the final result
|
Yell, fuck tricks and smoke, till our vocals combine with a Colt
|
They playin this in every club, whip, party and bar you in
|
Give you more blood clots than two jamaicans arguin
|
Sweat till ya fake silver platinum chains is tarnishin
|
Women shakin they ovaries, look what we accomplishin, what..
|
|
(Chorus)
|
We got better lyrics than you got "What You Got?"
|
We got better bitches than you got "What You Got?"
|
We run with more killas than you got "What You Got?"
|
We got better whips than you got "What You Got?"
|
We got better cribs than you got "What You Got?"
|
We got better bitches than you got "What You Got?"
|
We run with more killas than you got "What You Got?"
|
We got better lyrics than you got "What You Got?"
|
|
(Verse 2)
|
Coming to kill me, I cant hear that
|
Fear is a stimulus I haven't been programmed to feel yet
|
Snatch you outta your Roots like I'm from Illadelph
|
What I do to push your hairline back, Rogaine wont help
|
My Quest for the Wealth, like Stone Cold Austin's quest for the belt
|
I mention myself as a celestial cell, an extension of hell
|
At a lynching I smile, cut myself down, murder your guest list
|
My style never a drag like they do black men in Texas
|
Next rapper to mention this, I'ma show them the real threat
|
Cause I'ma ride till my daughters like "Daddy are we there yet?"
|
Ain't no priest in the streets, only drugs before miracles
|
See more keys than a lot of Hammer's repossessed vehicles
|
Told you I was coming, you ain't believe I'm assumin
|
If we all super heroes, these bitch niggaz must be Wonder Women
|
Fist to fist, skin to skin, I make you fall flat
|
Brat little niggaz, the tat on my shoulder cover they whole back
|
Cant hold back, splatter they whole rap to match my ((?))
|
Shittin on MC's, wipin my ass on they notebooks
|
How the broke crooks in videos leave me stressed
|
I'll turn on channel 2 if I wanna CBS, bitch
|
|
(Chorus w/ slight variation)
|
|
(Verse 3)
|
Least but not last, I'll blast an informant
|
Until he has the cash to put end to his torment
|
Now shine up the brass for his coffin
|
I'm last of the rawest, my passion ain't dormant
|
I've mastered the forces, I rap to the chorus,
|
My cast is enormous, I'm fast and I'm cautious
|
Twenty inch arms stronger than forklifts
|
Smoke hash in front of reporters till I choke and they nauseous
|
And smash through the glass of your Porsche's
|
Show you how Newark is as hard as divorces
|
Lay you out dead in the grass on the forest
|
My craft is flawless, have ya flesh wrapped in a blackened sausage
|
Blood Splashed across it for rhymin like a fag in a cordless
|
Murder all witnesses, nosey, standing on porches,
|
Like torches, super human, Chino's skin never scorches
|
Drape your family reunion in black funeral mourners
|
Have cats that sell ya drugs for you, avoid usual corners
|
I never lost this mad lust to be rap's Colossus
|
Breakin companies, Jersey got women strapped inside they office
|
I got.. DJ Supporters and women makin sex offers
|
I got.. A crib like a fortress, tuition for all my daughters
|
I got.. Rhymes hot like sauna's, and thousands from Time Warner
|
I got.. Killas on every corner, surrounded by jewish lawyers
|
What what what..
|
|
(Chorus w/ slight variation)
|
|
|
-----------------
|
What You Got
|
| Chino XL |
