Lyrics:
when I'm on the mic, I do serve well
And I go by the name of the Rapper Jalil
*Four minutes left*
Now sit back, relax, put on your head gear
Get ready
a dead man, leave his family in mourning
Ho, I shoot to kill
Ion shoot for a fucking warning
Two, four, six, eight bitches like I'm Mormon
Hate bitches,
He a dead man, leave his family in mourning
Ho, I shoot to kill, ion shoot for a fucking warning
Two, four, six, eight bitches like I'm Mormon
Hate
Play your favorite record
And maybe we can relate more
I'm an Avril kid, yes, I said it
I loved her, I am a human
Feel sixty four, feel thirty four
mastered by a few
I take a half a million tapes sell 'em straight to you
All that shit niggas talking just cant be real
I dont need a record deal, I need
With sad record sales won't flop (nah)
That's what you thought but I'm in that
New Porsche no box earrings chain on no
Watch (that's big) picture
5, no less than 4 on a slow day, call Vegas and bet
By the way, if you a winner, I'm the one you should be with Hit J
Tell them niggas to bet against
5, no less than 4 on a slow day, call Vegas and bet
By the way, if you a winner, I'm the one you should be with Hit J
Tell them n***** to bet against
Fucking concurrence à vomir!
Entre Drive-by en bolide! Zlat'Hayce
Compte plaider la folie!
Dès l'enfance on est
Différent comme 2-Chainz!
C'est le diable
my motivation
So every night, all I see is them four faces
I think about traveling and going different places
I stay positive regardless
on a cam
Could never be touched I'm protected by the fam
(Woah, woah)
(Yeah!)
Pull up four door
Play her a lil snippet now she wanna hear some more
(Woah,
checking all these stalkers, and my records aren't even gold
Breathe in slow, conserve the temper
Show these mother fuckers what this microphone is meant for
to be is by your side
Shake me down you want to put me on the ground
There's money in my pocket I won't make a sound
Run me over or pick a four leaf
your head, like I got your ass on record
Tune, don't be so cruel, Tune don't be so rude
Nah, fuck that, fuck these lil niggas, fuck these lil dudes
By
B4
Too Much Static Going On
Fitzmade On the track Nigga
Nothing but STATIC In My City
Walking Round With Antennas
You Talking Static with No
records, tv, school books too
And who decides what's right to hear? you?
Hey pmrc, you stupid fuckin' assholes
The sticker on the record is what makes 'em
Yeah, yeah
R-i-p, r-i-p
Yeah
Yeah ah yeah yeah
Yeah i smoke a fucking blunt all by my dolo
Hop up in the booth all my dolo and record the shit i'm
{Little girls.. think they're hardcore..} (4X)
[Kool Keith]
You got nine cars tons of champagne by the cases
Two thousand people killed
Prepare for Attack on the Stars
Prepare for Attack on the Stars
Five, four, three, two, one
Begin attack
Begin attack
Ah, hip, Swass, down
I know you niggas ain't fuckin' with me
[Chorus]
How dare these niggas try to fuckin' hate on me
Come out and make records sound just like me
in a river
Dead by a trigga thinkin he Schwarzenegger
Fools don't take him I took him across the liver
Keep Lloyd line on my stomach from
only been mastered by a few
I take a half a million tapes sell 'em straight to you
All that shit niggas talking just cant be real
I dont need a record
you smokas
Ma ma ma ma make crack like this
Masta P
Ghetto Dope No Limit Records
(Ma ma ma make crack like this)
Part of the Tobacco
stone-faced from the brothers
Ludicrous whining, meaning when the others
Stand by em, while they take the fall
The Beast' now lives in the Capitol
Record
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