Lyrics
They don’t wanna see us blow, they don’t wanna see us with dough
They don’t wanna see us flow, hell no, we glow
You knew it was the end the way we came in the door
Hit the club and I’ma leave with your hoe, hoe, hoe
My flames be hot every time that I throw
Ain’t nothing new son, I did this before
GGO, my niggas flip money like it ain’t no more
'Cause no friends when there ain’t no more
For the lust of currency, they put their trust in this country
All your friends be cunningly when they hungry
Jealousy wanna stop the prophet
Niggas hate to see money in our pockets but they don’t knock it
Sold your soul like stock markets, regardless
We bare heartless, with or without revolvers
We been this way before Godfather’s or Al Pacino
Catch me with blacks and Latinos
Jamaicans, Mexicans, Malcolm X again with a pen
Set a trend, watch you and your friend go copy it
Got Boricua’s screaming how poppy is sick
The illest shorty on the floppy disk, watch me it clips
Surpass and outshine all that light you get
First you live then you reathe it out, write it and spit
And I’ma leave with the same deeds I came in with
You can’t die with those riches you’ve got, them bitches you got
Enjoy life before it can stop, it’s too short
What’s hip hop without New York' You should of thought
I seen brothers get their face cut over Newport’s
Stickup kids who live for you to take your shoes off
We got lawyers working for us that’ll lie in the court
We still repent even if Christ ain’t die on the cross
Gamble life like a dice game, head crack, a row aces
Dept pays off your sent wages
This takes place on a weekly basis
In this business of handshakes and smiling faces
Hatred from the whole ghetto made us racist, exclusive
Got fanatics can’t wait to tape it
Spiritual, so a secret agent can’t trace it
Blessed be the soul, seek patience
We ain’t too far from y’all, starting to worship a gold pagan
Mystic God in the form of Satan, until nation rides against nation
You got wars and more rumours of wars
It’s yours truly, every track out I drop jewelry
I’m reality not a movie, you be sitcom
A sick con while hip hop sit in my palm
Let me hear a rhyme that ain’t about crime and firearms
I’m a quiet bomb, y’all niggas can’t disconnect
If my voice ever left I’ma use the internet
Ask Meth if I’m hot enough to come as a threat
And is it safe for you put down and place your bet'
You want a hit record, tell your label cut me a check
I leave them scared to rhyme, have a verse stuck in his neck
