Ayo, I smoke dust and shoot cops, sold guns to 2Pac
Smoked blunts with Biggie Smalls and sold drugs on New Lots
I was too young, couldn’t get up in clubs back in the old days
We used rob and terrorize kids in front of homebase
When Funkmaster Flex was inside, rocking the whole place
We was outside, smacking kids and snatching gold chains
Bagging mad pigeons, catching mad digits, bad bitches
And when they husbands came around we had to blast biscuits
A bunch of bad Brooklyn kids that always had pistols
Broken dreams and broken homes, we always had issues
And mad problems, worshipping gangsters and bank robbers
Watching Scarface, starting fights at rap concerts
Until we realized how to get the real money
Steal money, kidnap money, kill money
It’s funny how the money make the whole world love you
Jealous cats hate you, dime bitches want you
Little ghetto children run up on you, wanna touch you
Got the IRS looking at you, wanna fuck you
Sniffing so much blow, you don’t know if you can trust you
Ecstasy react to what the cocaine and the dust do
Go against the ILL Bill and Non Phixion will crush you
Bust you, leave you with a tube in your throat to suck through
We truck jewels, these dust brothers fuck mothers
The thugs love us, rap for the gunslingers and drug hustlers
Where my gangstas at?
«Is you a gangsta?»
«With gangsta rap»
