Ill Figures

When I write my lyrics, it's like, it's like I want my shit to be phat, I want people to be able to understand Yo, Anybody can rhyme, youknowhatimsaying But it's what you saying that makes a person know about you Knowhatimsaying, you know the type of person you is So it's like really, I'm just more of just Being a street narrator (aiyo, what up, famo?) Reefer lit, love hip hop, the gangstas got me like the broccoli Brooklyn baby cooling at a swat meet Real niggas wanna meet me, ladies wanna eat me Money clean Mercedes claim, baby, beat me Love getting dressed up, sweats and techs Ride around the hood, good, getting Gotti respect Hand is golden, an OG rolling and holding, yo Fresh kicks, soft leather, pockets is swollen Let my jam hit your tape deck, it's straight up, and made up For every real nigga with his gun on him, hate up Flying through the city nights, new flights Blue ice, hundred thousand in a Nike bag, license Drug shop, I'm sorry, Atari in the Ferrari Next see the Lex A Shallah, La Tam'pa Eating yo, all of us, scamma gangstas You know we honor, tip the kangol, cooling in the brown vengos I have never, giving up on a mission That's against my honor Duke let me warn you, my niggas crip up Them young boys'll run up on you, shoot your whip up Brooklyn, nigga, beg for you life And my Staten Island homeys lay your ass down on Glaciers of Ice Sidewalk executives, live the street life consecutive We built for this, go for your gun My prospective is, another day in the life, of money and drugs Big hammers and slugs, can get ugly as fuck From the chest to your man Danze, ey Staten Island, said what up, yo, ey The homey ODB said what up, though, ey We got the Chef on deck as if you didn't know It's sharp as fuck, Wu, that's what up Pack it up, wanna rap, wanna rock, what up? Wanna pop, get up, fuck around and get your block hit up Bring your team and we'll box 'em up Think M.O.P. is not what up It seems I'm a bit late here Don't worry, these men are all gonna die See from the side where it slum at, dumb at, rum at Cognac, combat, contact, contrast Crom's packing out like Beyonce back She bang out a song like the Fonz back Bigger things, bring the slangs, slicker than the sharpest pen Nigga here, combat, sweet dick Willie T, Rudy Ray Moore game Woodgrain all in the board reigns, before rain flooded Like storm drains, boss man, bundling raw 'caine Fours bang, neighborhood war games Get your weight up, you looking anarexic Posted on the block proper with the hammer vested Bitch came with empty hands, that's the hand she left with Thirsty ass with the water and it sounded desperate Break a white an hour, based it forty grand invested Live within the third rail, you know the man electric Shit was like the third world, until I handle metrics, that next shit