[Intro: Fat Joe (Joell Ortiz)]
|
Cook! (Yeah!)
|
Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah, uhh
|
It's that killa crack street music
|
(It's that Block Royal, Terror Squad music)
|
Crack, cook (Joell Ortiz nigga)
|
Listen (Knobody, WHAT UP!)
|
|
[Chorus: Joell Ortiz (Fat Joe)]
|
One shot, two shot, three shot, OHH! OHH!
|
That'll send him right to the morgue
|
Four shot, five shot, six shot, shit, shit
|
That's for the wife and the kids
|
(I don't care about your money or that shit on your chest)
|
Niggaz get killed for less!
|
(And all that shit you be talkin man we ain't impressed)
|
Niggaz get killed for less!
|
|
[Fat Joe]
|
Whether, closed caption or high definition
|
You could probably find me on that big screen, diamonds glistenin
|
"Ain't this a bitch man? That's Joey from the Bronx
|
And all the dirt he done, how the fuck he mix the songs nigga?"
|
He ain't lyin, I'm a chemist on that table
|
My needle with the beige make the competition hate you
|
Couple deaths on the block, now they rate you
|
Lil' Dex'll pull the trigger if I say shoot
|
One shot, two shot, 'nother nigga down
|
CSI searchin but his face can't be found nigga
|
Shit is crazy on the streets of the Bronx
|
Niggaz yellin "Shots fired" but police won't respond
|
Where I'm from niggaz pump that bass
|
And holler at your lil' sister right in front of your face nigga
|
The working man's a sucker you heard, see
|
Nigga's gettin hot for twenty years, still thirsty
|
I guess they share a bond with the 'caine
|
Now that's what I call rekindlin old flames
|
Get it? Who else but Coca in the Rover?
|
Sports kitted, coulda been my 'ghini or my 'rossa
|
Life is for the living, get a chauffeur
|
Find yourself a bitch that don't mind eatin chocha
|
We spit murder, you's a victim, boy
|
If that ass get flashy we'll stick ya, boy!
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
[Joell Ortiz]
|
Nah.. so don't die over nothin, let your lil' crew gas ya ass
|
Cause on my block I was the Doc, before Aftermath
|
I had that, rock in the spot the fiends had to blast
|
When I, chopped it with pop and shoot past the glass
|
See I really hustle homie, this ain't no fabrication
|
They never called me back, I filled out many applications
|
Watchin these corny niggaz come up, that was aggravatin
|
So I hit the corner, told 'em beat it like they masturbatin
|
I tried to have the patience
|
I asked God for the answers, he took too long to respond so I had a chat with Satan
|
He told me my dreams ain't have to stay imagination
|
Turned my wrecked Timbs to a stretch Benz for my graduation
|
Had all the lil' sluts at my prom salivatin
|
Scooped my diploma, I'm gone but I kept on calculatin
|
Colleges holla cause every grade I had's amazin
|
It was school books or cool looks when I pass with Daytons
|
Clappin at plays or hearin my new Magnum flamin
|
Schoolgirls or I'ma earl, look who this bastard's blazin
|
Long story short, man I had these faggots hatin
|
I'm handsome, I'm cool, I got guap, and I get it crack-a-latin
|
I come from the place where you get your hood passes made in
|
A brook where the only thing shook's on the stove marinatin
|
So when they say congratulations over the respect my pad is gainin
|
Know I ain't goin back, I'm aimin like
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
[Outro: Fat Joe]
|
AOWWWW! That's what the fuck I'm talkin about
|
That real gangsta music, BIATCH!
|
Like that shit, you like how that shit sounds nigga
|
BLAT!
|
|
-----------------
|
One Shot (Killed For Less)
|
Joell Ortiz |