Текст пісні Rolling 200 Deep III - Dj Kay Slay, Cassidy, King Flo

Rolling 200 Deep III

When niggas get all gas and pumped up like an Exxon\nWith negativity I’ma get at 'em like electrons\nIf my ratchet joined a YouTube movement\nIt’d be hard to dispute it 'cause I sexually molest mine\nAnd if it’s money on your head then a can pop\nThe damn Glock in my hand cock when the check signed\nI can hit the connect direct line\nWhen I be coppin' up bags, move fast like express line\nKing!\nKeep a shooter with me like 4K\nI’m a drama king too, Slay, I’m monte de rey\nI’m confused, your favorite rapper’s still got more to say\nEvery time we hand him down the budget, can’t afford to pay\nHah hah! Somebody cappin' and they rappin' ain’t it\nThe record captured, now he yappin' in the affidavit\nMaster your stature, that’s gon' factor if you last to make it\nSmack your favorite DJ if that the place where we have to take it\nLet me spray the hammer, is it safe or no?\nI’ma need about a sixteen but Kay said no\nI got the fire and the smoke, can’t breathe, you’ll choke\nLike The Vid, hard to live when there ain’t no antidote\nThou salute a real queen, never mind what you heard\nBeen a legend in this shit, ain’t have to say one word\n'Cause y’all crowd seekers be crown keepers\nGet found in the lost and found\nDivas get done dirty, get found cleaned off\nThem niggas be puddle ducks\nHuddled up and get 'em knuckle bucked 'fore I double up\nMy nigga love a problem, you want to get his trouble up?\nNo hair on his chest, he trying to get his stubble up\nYou ain’t on my temperature, don’t get on my heat scan\nThe last thing you’ll ever hear from them is my feet ran\nThat’s why I keep it on me because I keep playing\nSmoke us from the border nigga soon as the leaf land motherfucker\nSlang crack for breakfast, it’s how we got lunch\nA different definition for the rock brunch\nYou niggas out here telling on your cell phones\nHow you a snitch, taking pictures with the jail pose\nMy niggas charge in your room quicker than incidentals\nSend a missile that’ll never miss you, it ain’t sentimental\nIn Long Beach, niggas grip a pistol\nWith two drums on the side, them titties bigger than missiles\nIf I want it I’ma buy that, homie, cash good\nMy pockets on Backwood, keep a five packed on me\nIt was blocks with buildings that made a killing\nNow I done bought blocks, these buildings make me a killing\nWas eating graham crackers in a sandbox, you grew up on the Gram\nI grew up on Graham Avenue moving all them grams\nStyrofoam cup, just flew in from New Apollo\nWith a clip full of beautiful hollows that you can swallow\nI ain’t the nigga you should be hating on\nI’m the nigga my whole generation and bloodline been waiting for\nBest believe you catch me hopping off of that short yellow bus, I’m a nigga\nwith special needs\nSince the jungle gym, we fuckin' off the muscle (M.O.!)\n'Cause your drug habit is stronger than your hustle (Come on!)\nWarrior, I am this, ten shots\nI return 'em, chasin' you down a block with an iron fist\nYou still on it, you new dudes are counterfeit\nI don’t want to hear shit about your drip (No)\nYour whip, your chicks, or your chips (No)\nFuck around and get your auntie house hit\nBrownsville sponsorship monster shit\nI’m as hard as hard can get, I’m with the shit (Speedy)\nAre you kidding me? Real niggas is feeling me\nHow many G.O.A.Ts can that really be?\nFirst hip-hop party The Herculoids threw\n1520 Sedgwick Avenue (New York), August 11, '73\nThe first day of hip-hop. know your history\nNot here to grandstand, I just want my respect\nFrom you industry cats who cut the wrong check\nI’m truly living standing in my square\nCoke La Rock! Hip-hop education is here