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作词 : Dennis Coles |
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作曲 : Danny Caiazzo |
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You realize who I am? |
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I'm gonna break your bones into little bits |
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Yo, you could throw me in a lineup |
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Rough beard, thick knot and my shines up |
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Mediterranean bezel rocks planted like saltines |
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Worth about six hundred thousand in the Auck scene |
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I still jog in the hills of Brazil |
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Twelve eggs and my conditioning coach is Anderson Sil |
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He a prize fighter, and me, I'm a prize writer |
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Time you industry niggas recognize fire |
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Boric acid mixed with ricin |
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Don't stand under a tree 'cause my flow is lightning |
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Some say I should be prosecuted, death by lethal injection |
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Electrocuted or Malcolm X 'em |
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Or send a Chinese b1tch in the club to stretch him |
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And if that don't work, then it's on to the next one |
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Beef, we can let it cook, fried to perfection |
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Got the bulldog snub that'll cave your chest in |
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"You know what'd happen if I punched you really hard?" |
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Ayo, my moms never knew that she was nursin' a wolf |
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And I wrote this on 9/11, covered in soot |
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Spittin' tobacco out my mouth in Claiborne fatigues |
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Posted under a Brinks truck waiting to squeeze |
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Stay on point like the nose of a marlin, Spartacus brawler |
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Pressin' y'all pxssies in public, n1gga, you stallin' with |
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Nowhere to run, nigga, I'll grab your ear |
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My shootin' arm stay fresh like a bag of gear |
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Goose coats, yachts, diving off of big boats |
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My b1tch pedicured up with a sick throat |
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So cold, making you stutter |
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"I-I-I c-c-can't believe Ghost is still gutter" |
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Everywhere I go, I'm polyg'ed up |
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Cohen optical frames of Breitling, dipped with a crisp cut |
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See me on a Jackson 5 cover next to Randy |
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They had black 'fros, mine was sandy |
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Buckwheat Jackson |
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"You gonna fight or not?" |
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"Get off." |
