Lyrics
Killas, yeah! Y’all done fucked up now
That’s right, I don’t even know why I’m on this track
I called up some of my big homies
And we gonna ride on you bitch-made ass, playa-hatin' ass niggas
And we ain’t even players, we’re coaches, bitch! (Straight from the sewers of detroit, y’all!)
Coaches… (Simpson, get 'em, get 'em, get 'em…)
We tell you what to do! (Yo!)
Get on the field nigga! Run, RUN!
The Grim Reaper’s godson, I disarm you with that shotgun
And pop one, you’re harmless, and now armless
I follow these rap artists, and drop my targets in Target
More cans than a supermarket
Paper or plastic, watch 'em fade away when I blast it
I’m a kush hit, from starting war on some Bush shit,
I make up beef and break up teeth
And charge cats to rebuild that made up-street
There’s not one too big for caskets
I’m a walking hazard, I’m a straight up beast!
I make a motherfucker wake up sleep!
Warrior mode, I’m letting all you foreigners fold
I shut it down like I’m border control
Learn about it, before you get murdered 'bout it You don’t have to choose cause I kill you with the fork in the road
Motherfuckers!
Guns like Yosemite, funds like Joe Kennedy,
The belly of the beast, taking Tums won’t do diddly, so Fuck an athletic ability, I’m gaining weight
And losing it in 24 hours trying to stay in shape
Hustle with amazing grace but I ain’t been to church in ages
You go to Dunham’s for bats, I go to purchase gauges
The next time it’s a wrap, you under dirt and pavement
No body, no need to make arrangements
Dangerous, the niggas I call broke and home team
Sanctioned by the gutter but anxious to do their own things
Along came a rider that sat down besides green
And told that bitch to listen, «now, you just a team in my league,»
You only getting high if you rolling up my weed
And she ain’t said «Hi» unless she been fucked by me! (Bitch!)
Try me, I’m running through them like I’m in the IV
I should’ve been a car because the Motor City designed me, bitch!
It ain’t over, n’aw it ain’t over
See we’re gonna take the show on the road
We’re going to New York
So my niggas Sean P. and Roc Marciano can show you how they get down!
Phantom of the opera, a cannon that’ll pop ya A tree hugging bitch sending damage to your chakra
The AK’ll chop ya, what I cop the machete for?
Swing, leave you punch drunk lookin' for Betty Ford,
Back smack niggas, my Gat clap niggas
Dude you food for fat rap niggas, Sean P I be holdin' it down, notice the style
Gettin' bigger since a nigga started eatin Golden Corral! (Psh!)
2Pac who? 2Pac me? Shit, the tool pop you, now who got D? (Juice!)
No Omar Epps, orangutan gang bang with the crowbar, yep!
Sean Price, I’m a grown ass man
Fuck a fist fight I grip the fifth tight and let the chrome blast fam!
Listen, I got my shit in order fengshui, but a nigga still wreck the buffet
Shut the fuck up, P!
Cool capers, that made the papers
Escape with glaciers, jake chase us, evasive
Scarface is aces, shake them agents
Bang the gauges on the cages
Slang in front of bodegas with gangstas
Tie fly shoelaces, pursuin greatness
Embrace this, your crew is chew like tubesteakers
A gang of big faces and suitcases, tenacious
My wave game is like an oasis your flow is basic
You blow haters get faded, you physically, spray the stainless
This ain’t entertainment this how we pay rent
Then jump in that grey Benz, like a young Jay Prince, you content
My skin is radiant, rhymes is evil like Damien
Hard body flesh is titanium, you about as solid as baby shit
My spit leave your lady bewitched, to keep the chrome 380 to babysit
When you pay me with chips that’s short like the Haiti kid
Motherfucker!
Marc nigga
Rock your mother fucking knot, boy!