Інформація про пісню На цій сторінці ви можете ознайомитися з текстом пісні 125 Part 3 (Connections), виконавця - Joell Ortiz.
Дата випуску: 23.04.2007
Мова пісні: Англійська
125 Part 3 (Connections) |
Bar none |
When I spit a bar, I spit a |
Hennessy, Hypnotic |
Patron, Couroisier |
Grey Goose |
I grill niggas, spit a barbecue |
Committing drive-bys out a grey Coupe |
When I start drowning rappers, dawg |
It ain’t cute |
Till every person in they group turn blue like they Snoop |
Watch face blue, but I’m grimey duke |
I like most of y’all niggas better in your shiney suits |
At the hood, after hours, when I’m on the loose |
Cause I hang with troops like Sadaam on the noose |
So fuck what y’all trying to pass off as the truth |
I done jumped from the earth and touched the Universe’s roof |
Crash landed back on planet like meteor |
Dust off my white tee and lift Lamborghini doors |
I keep me a meaty whore |
Trini in bikini, apple martini whore |
Y’all niggas is CB4 |
My niggas in CDC |
Bounty hunter ECG |
Dipping Newports into PCP |
Give a mic to me is UFC on Spike TV |
Niggas talk gangsta shit but he ain’t one |
Till he see that gun and realize nobody really love you |
Like New York on VH1 |
I’m the ghetto experiment |
Pop in at any son |
Me and the project, project, projecting objects at anyone |
Blackjack bitches, that’s 21 |
Dare any nigga to be a dollar and see |
You want the king of the west then holler at me |
Who’s been eating? I haven’t daddy |
Just been the booth’s Houdini, working my magic scrappy |
Industry jabbing at me |
I’m just trying to keep my marriage happy |
But the politics and the games driving me crazy like an Arab cabbie |
Still I never quit |
Def Jam’s president, from up the block, around the corner |
Down the street, where I’m selling it |
Who said, «Joell is sick»? |
Man I’m on the deathbed |
I wrote this on the bedspread, with IV in my wrist |
I am him |
The product of a moms who got high and a father who ain’t say «bye"to them |
His family that is |
Know that y’all can never break me |
Look in my eyes, listen up guys… don’t make me |
Only a rookie in the game’s eyes |
Been doing this since I was yeeh high |
It’s alright to be shook |
I will turn the first album into a library book |
C’mon let’s skim through the pages in my diary, look |
18 I rock those stretchers |
19 I dropped a 12 inch |
Rawkus Records, that’s when I hooked up with G. Rap |
It’s nothing, bang |
Y’all heard the streets feedback |
At 25 I’m the outcome of everything between that |
Y’all know I’m everything y’all want to be |
I do the shit you never do |
I feel it when you look at me |
I’d kill myself if I was you |
You |
See, but luckily I’m not |
I used to run in labels like, «You should fuck with me I’m hot.» |
By now I could have sold some mills and showed that I was so for real |
While your roster fucked around like Lauren Hill’s |
Let me stop, I ain’t hating on nobody |
It’s like the whole world is waiting on somebody |
They say that I’m the obvious replacement |
I just say this shit’s a hobby |
Lot of new rappers waiting in the lobby |
But I’m coming up |
Me and Joell, do it so well |
Niggas either want to throw shells or ride on our coattails |
Oh well |
Go tell someone I’m coming |
I’m sonning niggas without touching they mother |
There’s no one above me |
I told y’all that I was a problem |
Rappers started studying me like they could solve it |
Listen close |
I got a 9 times 5 |
I pop 3 times 2 |
Add drama, take away your respect and divide you |
In half, for your math I do this til I’m through |
Living life, breathing breath, I bring death to your whole crew |
I don’t know if there’s a better MC |
Some people get better with time, I say the getting better with me |
I got, I got my rhymes tight, the streets gave Sha light |
Now you see me holding C-Notes like the Chi-Lites |
It’s The Present motherfucker |
I got one happy soldiers, esse that clappy clappy toaster |
That turn you brains into nasty tapioca |
Ewwww |
Then I hop back on over |
To drop autograph while I’m autographing a poster |
I’m in the cut like |
Chains stashed in a sofa |
I’m Hennessy straight, you a pretty ass glass of mimosa |
You a bum, I caught you trying to go half on a soda |
You make the change, I use the stash in my loafer |
So it don’t matter what I pack in a holster |
Cause I slash you till I scratch the plaque off the back of your molar |
It’ll cut through the back of a boulder |
Owwww |
Got a pack full of sodas with a bag of explosives |
And they clapping them toasters that can detach your back from your shoulders |
After I blow your little daughter out the back of her stroller |
And the ricochet will blow her back in the stroller |
Cause that gat caliber has the motor out the back of a roaster |
Vrrrom |
Get drunk and try to spaz you joker |
Till I punch you in your face and move your back tooth over |
I’ll knock 'em down your throat |
You gag, you choke up |
Then I bet by the time your lungs collapse, you sober |
Breathe easy |
Back don’t ya |
I’m a crack donor |
So my tax write off is a crack smoker |
Aaaayyyyye |
I ain’t battling no one so don’t bring a challenger over |
If I wanted a challenger I’d battle my poster |
I ain’t never met a thug that my slugs ain’t like |
I never met one who lived or walked straight, when they all hit right |
Head or the back you parents are attending a mass |
Centered around that box wood, lacquered in black |
With you you laying stiff in the cushion |
While I’m pushing a 'Lac, past the church while your family’s looking |
Over your face, me driving over the bridge |
With coke in a space sealed by placing a switch |
If life is a bitch then she fuck me nice |
Boxed up for seven joints now she pregnant, bout to birth me yikes |
My first born at least, VS1 |
My seed cultivating, that love grow out of weed and concealed guns |
Triple beam lust |
Finger fucking them grams that make twins out of one of my hand |
My connect away set me apart |
The potential to flood it like when Noah finished building the Ark |
Colombian |
Moving coke is an art |
If Michelangelo was Pablo, Gab Gotcha gotta be Picasso |
I rock flows and crush rocks for your nostrils |
Clutch glocks that pop when that blow make you hostile |
or I unload a clip |
And siamese twin your head and the lobby |
Silicone tips makes less sizzle |
Implants in your chest like fake tits, holes size of your nipples |
Nigga |
Gab Gotcha. Crown City nigga. |