Song parody of
Cartel Gathering
by Raekwon
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Ay yo we four or five niggas with furs on
Up top gated up, big tables got the reserves on
Blowing on saxophones, the band is rough
So much ice on looks like my wrist been cut
And we just made it back from Beijing
Seen my jeweler, told him melt the bird down to eight rings
And the music stopped, Jada stood up (yeah)
Before the speech, he had everybody raise they cups
He said, I been in spots where I can't even mention it
"Don't drink the Cris', Ghost might to pissed in it!"
Romanian dude, black down, pouring the Saki
Face slumped to the side like Rocky
Then Strahan came through, with his bullshit ring
He said yikes, when I pulled out my monster bling
Don't be afraid of the New York street talk
I switch gear all day bro, like you do on your peach porch
The chairs is suede, the walls is velvet
Marquise ballroom, so live I felt it
Fat asses in fishnets, shaking they pelvis
Playing with they pussy, middle finger dripping, I smelt it
Poker tables, crap joints just for rap niggas
Me and Sheek, walking around bitch-slapping niggas
There go Rae, there go P
Yo Chop what up! What up?
Sam Cooke writing hand, all of my lightning, damn
Used to rob niggas in Sam's, buy shams
For my dude's baby shoe or booster baby, rolling with steel
Eating Jamaican food under the wheel
You know the deal, book something then blow
When from a O to a low, little apartment in Brookdale
Gold was my motto, lotto numbers is what?
Had it in me, rolled down cooling with coke
That's the 90's, Chef era take over America
Bag Ugly Betty up, make her Ms. Guerrera
Pinky wench in sweaters, cortex burning the mic booth
Travel right past my heritage
Them old school niggas is me
Taught me how to read, get skee'd, everybody missing a ki
Yo I do this with a natural movement
Catch me by the munition Venetian scope on me, fuck it I'm losing it
Uh, yeah, yo
I did it my way, lights off on the highway
Greek statues on both sides of the driveway
Word to the stamps on the diesel
The way these niggas is looking either they got cramps or they evil
One go we all go, D-boy fresh but hard dough
Cashmere and suede cargoes
On top of the beige Wallo's
45 government edition clippers, straight hollows
My 'Clientele is Supreme' and it's proven
That I'm 'Only Built 4 the Link' if it's Cuban
I'm a pioneer, I'm not a vet (uh-uh)
"Last Kiss" is a French one, it's not a peck (uh-uh)
Moving powder, piff and a lot of wet
You're gonna die, that's a promise, not a threat
Yeah, but I ain't with the chattering
'Cause I'd just rather splatter them
This is a Cartel gathering, what?
Ay yo we four or five niggas with furs on
Up top gated up, big tables got the reserves on
Blowing on saxophones, the band is rough
So much ice on looks like my wrist been cut
And we just made it back from Beijing
Seen my jeweler, told him melt the bird down to eight rings
And the music stopped, Jada stood up (yeah)
Before the speech, he had everybody raise they cups
He said, I been in spots where I can't even mention it
"Don't drink the Cris', Ghost might to pissed in it!"
Romanian dude, black down, pouring the Saki
Face slumped to the side like Rocky
Then Strahan came through, with his bullshit ring
He said yikes, when I pulled out my monster bling
Don't be afraid of the New York street talk
I switch gear all day bro, like you do on your peach porch
The chairs is suede, the walls is velvet
Marquise ballroom, so live I felt it
Fat asses in fishnets, shaking they pelvis
Playing with they pussy, middle finger dripping, I smelt it
Poker tables, crap joints just for rap niggas
Me and Sheek, walking around bitch-slapping niggas
There go Rae, there go P
Yo Chop what up! What up?
Sam Cooke writing hand, all of my lightning, damn
Used to rob niggas in Sam's, buy shams
For my dude's baby shoe or booster baby, rolling with steel
Eating Jamaican food under the wheel
You know the deal, book something then blow
When from a O to a low, little apartment in Brookdale
Gold was my motto, lotto numbers is what?
Had it in me, rolled down cooling with coke
That's the 90's, Chef era take over America
Bag Ugly Betty up, make her Ms. Guerrera
Pinky wench in sweaters, cortex burning the mic booth
Travel right past my heritage
Them old school niggas is me
Taught me how to read, get skee'd, everybody missing a ki
Yo I do this with a natural movement
Catch me by the munition Venetian scope on me, fuck it I'm losing it
Uh, yeah, yo
I did it my way, lights off on the highway
Greek statues on both sides of the driveway
Word to the stamps on the diesel
The way these niggas is looking either they got cramps or they evil
One go we all go, D-boy fresh but hard dough
Cashmere and suede cargoes
On top of the beige Wallo's
45 government edition clippers, straight hollows
My 'Clientele is Supreme' and it's proven
That I'm 'Only Built 4 the Link' if it's Cuban
I'm a pioneer, I'm not a vet (uh-uh)
"Last Kiss" is a French one, it's not a peck (uh-uh)
Moving powder, piff and a lot of wet
You're gonna die, that's a promise, not a threat
Yeah, but I ain't with the chattering
'Cause I'd just rather splatter them
This is a Cartel gathering, what?
