G.O.D. Pt. III

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Masters at Work

Masters at Work is the house-garage production and remix team of "Little" Louie Vega and Kenny "Dope" Gonzalez. They first worked together using the name, which had been given to them by mutual friend Todd Terry (who recorded several tracks under that name during the 1980s), in 1990. Vega is also the cousin of Eric Vega, a popular event creator and promoter in New York City. more »


Year:
1997
93 Views

 The easy, fast & fun way to learn how to sing: 30DaySinger.com

Some of that 151 Son (yeah some of that bogus) 
("What you got in the trunk?") 
Aight aiyyo Son yo yo 
You think that motherfuckin nigga's out there right now Son? 
(Word what he doin out here?) 
Son we got drama with that nigga 
Be tryin to fuckin front last week 
(What that kid out there? Yo I seen that nigga earlier knahmsayin?) 
Nah f*ck that go go open the window real quick Son 
Open that fuckin window 
(You gonna take him from the window nigga?) 
Yo hold up 
That, there go, that's that nigga right there Son? 
Right next to the basketball court? 
(Yeah yeah, that's the one) 
Oh shit! come here come here come here come here, turn the lights out 
(I got somethin too Son, that's how we do) 
Turn the lights out, c'mon through 

(Back up, back up, they lookin) 
Aiyyo Son, I'ma hit that nigga right now Son 
Word to mom I'ma hit him out the window Son 

(Yo you buggin' Son!) 
Heh nhah chill 'Zo, f*ck that 
I'ma hit that nigga right out the motherfuckin' window 
(Ga head Son, go head man!) 
Hold up (You want somebody go bust him!) 
Nah f*ck that I'ma hit this nigga out the window Son 
(Ga head man!) 
Shit shit shit don't blow it up, duck down 
(Yo let me do it man, let me do it, go head) 
Yeah yeah yeah, yeah nigga, yeah! 
Yeah! (gimme gimme gimme gimme) 
Fucker! (What?) 

[Chorus: x2] 
(Yo it's the) G.O.D., Father Pt. III 
QBC, sip lime Bacardia 
Heavy on the wrist, cube-link, my ice ring 
Drama we bring, yeah/yo that's a small thing 

Awright now, pay attention to the crime rhyme Houdini P 
Keepin' you niggaz in perspective 
Mobb, representative, call me the specialist 
Professional, professor at this rap science 
Up in the laboratory, here's why your small rhyme bore me 
Store bought rap ain't shit, my category 
is that of an insane who strike back (what?) 
I draw first blood, it's over with, and that's that 
You want to square off, forsake and slice that cat 
You get splashed, from back of your head, to ass crack 
Surgical signs to the end, with iron map 
Which bring, apocalypse to this game called rap 
Not a game but quite serious and yo in fact 
You'll be runnin' for dear life so far you might fall off the map 
Fuckin' with P, you need a gat 
At least to have the opportunity to bust back 
First shot the motherfucker pack around world premier 
Shook individual bound from blind fear 
Scared to death niggaz fall to they worst fear 
My retail's in braille, for vision impaired 
You lookin' for P, well you can find him everywhere 
In a project near you, I'll be right there 
I was brought up and taught to have no fear (now) 
Live wire niggaz stay behind me in the rear (now) 
Cowardly hearts, step aside, stand clear (fear) 
My bloodthirsty niggaz got they eyes on you 
QBC, lime Bacardia, G.O.D. Father Pt. III 
On some hashish, to Embassy Suite, crash your party 

[Chorus: x2] 
 
Yeah yo, lime Bacardi, gettin bent, crash the party 
Handle be-I, bringin it to anybody 
Physical damage, crowd control handle cannons 
Hittin' you ripped, leave your bloodstream contamin-ed 
While you actin out of character, we observin' 
Drillin' 'em down so hard, I know we felt you comin' at 'em 
Hennessee raps float like the Phantom 
Runnin' you up out of the spot in which you standin' 
Never second-guess a cat who hold gat 
Concealed, but easily revealed and fast 
Body castin raps to get your back snapped in half 
and severed, impossible pain beyond measure 
Sheisty living brought him to his last bread (bread) 
Life changed around quick to one stead (stead) 
Face full of fear, conquerin' your ice grill (grill) 
Tragedies, put him to sleep like NyQuil (NyQuil) 
Givin' a overdose of this rap potent 
Potentially dangerous, fatally left open 
for the roaches, scavengers, that's EMS 
Funeral homes, anticipatin' your death 
That's the dead truth, check in the morgue, you'll find proof 
Enough to make you think and stop before your ship sink 
to the bottom, night owl leave the mark and spot him 
You know the routine, face up before I shot him 

[Chorus: x4]

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Written by: GIORGIO MORODER

Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind

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