[Intro: Raekwon]
|
Yo, shorty, man
|
Yo, I been seeing you, man, for real, man, come on, man
|
Yo, man, tell your girl let me sleep with her, man
|
I give you a thousand grams
|
|
[Raekwon:]
|
He throw blow in lands, hit good pussy up, kush me up
|
My dough is advanced and rover with the lambskin coat on
|
Lighting reefer, my mans and them
|
We got plans, man, but first show me where the grams went
|
Ten fold scheme in the doorway, we all the way in now
|
What they rolling for? We blowing them bowling balls
|
Rifle with the knife on it, lifers jump right up on it
|
Maseratis double piping, wrist lightning
|
I rhyme for the flight men, the drug boys, thug noise
|
They want, they come get it from me, it's like done
|
I'm just a scholar with some street drug news, plug dudes
|
No kidnappings, we mug dudes, I love jewels
|
Might take your man shit, up in the jam and shit
|
Listening to Eric B. and Rakim planning shit
|
I'm all for the vandal shit, good nights
|
Bet I got a good gun with long bullets and a Taruga light
|
Come to the palace, chalices, hood pussy from Dallas
|
All of this is childish, I allowed this
|
Rap saved the babies, all these young niggas with these 3-80's
|
Fronting like they robbed down Macy's
|
Stop it, we them cockpit boys, we got shit
|
Plus pop shit, grab your bird twatty; obnoxious
|
Flashin' knots and shit, yachts that smell like piss
|
It's all good, we only fucking in her mouth, partner
|
The lock men, I rock, was robbing, met her out in Africa
|
Yeah, yeah, bought her my glock, let me hold that man...
|
|
[Chorus x2: Raekwon]
|
We the Dutch Masters, the blunts with the gun flashers
|
Love maxing, watch niggas last moves
|
Keep it cool, get those ones, play the building
|
Get your run game on, and stay stashing
|
|
[N.O.R.E.:]
|
Aiyo, octopus hands, slash backs of the gold rolly
|
Shootouts in the liquor store, my man on parole owe me
|
Old man freedom still preaching on the block
|
Still talking, you can't sling drums and hold a walkman
|
Fishcale dumped inside the quarter water juices
|
Staircase madness, the hammer stash gooses
|
Went to time flow, yo I heard they let Shyne go
|
Big whip spaces, betting at the horse races
|
Old school with it, banging Julio Iglesias
|
Suaded leather seats, feet reclined, line back of moves
|
Homey with the chipped tooth from Faragent, he arrogant
|
Did a bid with him, gave him razors in the church hall
|
Then he turn Muslim, Jihad to hurt ya'll
|
Hooligan goon shit, never onto FUBU
|
Never on computers, niggas never heard of Google
|
Mink slippers lounging with the cashmere headband
|
Still spending Euro's, Germany, Dresden
|
Dubai high, drinking all the French water
|
Champagne-yah, my campaign a, macarena
|
Aim a flamer, his accent was Dana Daner
|
I mean Dana Dane, distribution crazy 'caine
|
Elvis sideburns, his appearance always crazy lame
|
Move big weight though, winnebago
|
Remind me of Dego, and Jose Canseco
|
The man in San Diego, that's where he lay low
|
His soldiers do what he say so, all day though
|
Yeah, little nigga you gotta respect protocol
|
That's where you come from homeyboy
|
|
[Chorus x2: N.O.R.E.]
|
Aiyo, cigar niggas, Phillies my favorite
|
Beat the affidavit, that good weed, you save it
|
Run through the alleyways, ever since the valley days
|
We been on that New York shit but smoking Cali haze
|
|
[Capone:]
|
Aiyo, five grams crushed in a bill fold, he snorted it
|
Coke professor, test it before he ordered it
|
Lamping on a La-Z-Boy, real McCoy, flick the ashes
|
Champagne bitches is butt naked, filling glasses
|
Whips with the mean stashes, ox spitting gun clappers
|
Onasis money, she fly with the package
|
Easy Wider rider nigga, I'm a bamboo vandal
|
Ran through cities, looking for white paper, that rice papers
|
That bullshit, the back of the Bibles, the light saver
|
I blow joints to the head, Al Queda raider
|
Black bandanna, old hammer, phone scrambler
|
Niggas wearing wires cause shit bad, lit on fire
|
Old school marvels, pardon the middle, waves bust to the side
|
Still rocking diddy bop like '85
|
Them pinky rings, diamond crust Diors is diamonds dusted, trust it
|
My niggas rob to rob niggas, so fuck it |