Classic rap lyrics about life, love, money and more.
Cocaine trafficking, your boy’s back again,
Moving bricks like I got a degree in scaffolding.
Fucking with some cats from Newark…half of them Jewish,
Cool white boys riding around, blasting my music,
And I’m taxin’ them like Jackson-Hewitt.
What if somebody from the Chi that was ill got a deal on the hottest rap label around?
But he wasn’t talking ‘bout coke and birds, it was more like spoken word,
Except he’s really puttin’ it down.
I clock G’s while you clock Z’s.
And I don’t smoke crack…I smoke MC’s.
The motto goes: Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll.
I prefer: Love, Hugs and Hip-Hop Soul.
Now on the first day of Christmas, my homeboy gave to me
A sack of the krazy glue and told me to smoke it up slowly.
Now on the second day of Christmas, my homeboy gave to me
A fifth of Hendog and told me to take my mind off that weed.
Now by the third day of Christmas, my big homeboy gave to me
A whole lot of everything, and it wasn’t nuthin’ but game to me.
I said ‘Whoa, little hottie,
I’m not DeLorean, Gambino or Gotti.
I don’t deal coke,
And furthermore you’re making me broke.
I’ll put you in a rehab and I won’t tell your folks.’
And what do you know,
In 18 months she came home,
And I let her back in…
And now she’s sniffing again.
White Jesus in my crock pot,
I mix the shit with some soda.
Now Black Jesus turn water to wine,
…And all I had to do was turn the stove up.
Up against Goliath, to bring butter home.
I’m David on pavement, sling another stone.
Girls stick like Crazy Glue, they think they’re gettin’ dough;
But I treat hoes like drugs: I just say ‘No.’
If I wasn’t in the rap game,
I’d probably have a key knee-deep in the crack game.
Because the streets is a short stop:
Either you’re slinging crack rock or you got a wicked jump shot.
I’ve seen niggas transform like villain Decepticons,
Mollies’ll prolly turn these niggas to fuckin’ Lindsay Lohan.
A bunch of rich ass white girls lookin’ for parties,
Playin with Barbies, wreck the Porsche before you give ‘em the car key.
Wake up: all of that ‘crack in the street’ talk?
It’s made up, like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
Imagine Rock up in the projects where them niggas pick your pockets,
Santa Claus don’t miss them stockings, liquor spilling, pistols popping,
Baking soda Yola whipping, ain’t no turkey on Thanksgiving,
My homeboy just domed a nigga, I just hope the Lord forgive him.
Hits from the bong
Make me feel like Cheech,
And I’m kickin’ it wit’ Chong.
New York, New York, big city of dreams,
Where there’s nothing but foreign cars, bitches, and triple beams.
God damn! Drug dealers dealin’ to the kiddies,
Livin’ in the city ain’t no pity on the itty-bitty.
We try to cry, but still they all die,
I try to speak to the youth, and the truth is: they all high.
Dope is like a two-way street:
The addiction, both you and me, now take a seat.
Every car got a fleet, every broad get a Jeep,
Every sparkle in the club that wasn’t ours, we compete.
Poor minds, poor decision makers;
No reward…then what’s the risk you taking?
My first offense was possession of weed,
Now I’m in the major leagues, and
That muthafucka Bill Clinton is a son of a bitch;
Had the nerve to throw out the first pitch.
I’m just tryin’ to get rich like Trump,
The home run king is now in a slump…pass me a hunk.
How the fuck can I stay out the Pen,
When its 1-2-3 strikes, you in?
Reporting live from the project benches:
Hella caine, dope in cellophane, dirty syringes,
Heron zombies street-walking on three-week binges.
Clientele look like the Thriller vid in 3D lenses.
Got the new Hummer in the summer when,
I was a newcomer then,
Drugs and Mac-10s, hugs from fake friends.
Make ends: they hate you,
Be broke: girls won’t date you.
Life’s a bitch and then you die.
That’s why we get high,
Cause you never know when you’re gonna go.
I mastered The Art of War before a nigga read Sun Tzu,
Third degree black-belt, master of Gun-Fu.
Pop pills, smoke weed, even get drunk too;
And you do what you can, and I do what I want to.
I mastered The Art of War before a nigga read Sun Tzu,
Third degree black-belt, master of Gun-Fu.
Pop pills, smoke weed, even get drunk too;
And you do what you can, and I do what I want to.
30 rack on a neck of a artist (Say what?)
About another 20K on his arm (Say what?)
This nigga flashin’ 50 grand,
Walk around here, lookin like food for the wolves.
Listen! Illuminati rap: we don’t ride to that,
Everybody poppin’ molly…look at how they act.
(Y’all sweatin’) The whole place emotional,
Wake up to find out some dude’s Frank Ocean’ed you.
I’ll ignore you sellin crack, killin people, and keepin it real,
But disrespect me and my adopted fam and die young like veal.
Damn it’s a shame you’re the mighty queen of vials,
With a wide-eyed look and a rotten-toothed smile.
Used to walk with a swagger, now you simply stagger
From one spot on, to the next spot on, to the next spot on, to the next…
I say ‘cuz’ around Bloods, and I say ‘blood’ around Crips…I’m twisted.
Got Mary, got Lucy, got Molly: that’s wifey, girlfriend and mistress.
Squeeze 7cc’s so I could see the seven seas,
And CC all my friends so they could see what I was seeing…
But what they saw was a despicable human being;
So, I guess they just wasn’t seeing what I was seeing.
We still wading in the water…
Cocaine, blunts, marinating in the water.
Lean and took a puff, and then she gave it to my father,
Used to take the bullets out so I could play with the revolver.
Satan serenading ever since I was a toddler,
Tell ‘em talk is cheap…niggas living for the dollar.
Nobody put the crack into the pipe,
Nobody made you smoke off your life.
You thought that you could do dope and still stay cool?
Fool…you played yourself.