Lyrics:
Jesus, Mary and Joe
They done passed Heaven Bill 1070
Restricted signs everywhere you go
I think they want to bring back old Jim Crow
If there's a God
for that busta shit
By the time I was 9, seen a bunch of shit
Lost more homies than a Iraq vet
Niggas skipping on groceries to buy that Tec
Lost a few
that shit around me
(guilt-guilty by association)
Cause I ain't gettin indicted
With fools around me
(guilt-guilty by association)
It's cool you flip
Larceny.
I did it all, I put 'da pieces to da puzzle.
Just as long, I knew me and my peoplez was gonna' bubble.
Came out da gate on some Flow-Joe shit.
Fat
shit about a pile, of bricks to show
He ain't nuttin' but another, a lone John Doe
That want to flow, here it is, comin' up shit's creek
I come to throw
for that busta shit
By the time I was 9, seen a bunch of shit
Lost more homies than a Iraq vet
Niggas skipping on groceries to buy that Tec
Lost a few
right)
We about to attack this
(Harlem Inc, Murder Inc) Yeah
(Nicky Bond)
Jimmy Cagney type shit, Nicky Santoro
All my little short niggaz
Joe Pesci
the pot
Fat shit hit him all over his butt
Uh, uh, yeah
Free Eagle
Real deal one, got his stuff in the sheet
Got sticks on his brother if he want it from
don't nobody cap on
Slap on some D-R-E
Or some funky ass shit by the D-O double-G-Y D-O double-G
Real G's who drop ki's, protect these N-U-T's, so
What the fuck you think a trick is nigga
Nigga done stick and wet his dick
And then get tricked out all his riches by a bitch!
I'm here to school you
Hey, check it
What we have here
Is another one
The remix (ladies and gentleman)
Orchestrated
(You don't have to worry)
By the Puff Daddy
happen, Joe is never rappin'
He was always gettin' loot off the crack and
Fuckin' with them heavyweights, who had shit sewn in every state
The very
flip bricks, These boys flip tons
One time Fat Joe, Rest In Peace Big Pun
This how I do it do it
Spit English and Spanish fluent
Then if you don't
Cause you need a lot more ones and guns for this
Me and my mans is bout to spit some hot shit
Yeah, one two
Bout to spit that, hot shit
Huh whoo! Yeah
South is running shit
Then one blood group, shit's all developing, New York
One's for the trouble
Two's for the show
Three's for the bass and that
ghetto tale
You play a gun, but the game is real
You want to stop my money, how?
You keep smoking, I'm selling out
It's called the City of Dope, might
this product
It is a Relativity Records product artist Fat Joe
My name is KRS One
And of course we're gonna bring THE noise
Cause we can
shit
All you do is think
Think
Take a fat shit
All you do is think
Think (time)
Take a fat shit
Big fat shit up in the cut
Real big shits
Big fat shit up
with missiles, prayer lies with you
The shit you say'll get you sprayed with the clapper
Just remember Joe the God is not your ordinary rapper
with missiles, prayer lies with you
The shit you say'll get you sprayed with the clapper
Just remember Joe the God is not your ordinary rapper
Yeah nigga, we call that shit a spiros
Wait, is that my nigga Ehi?
Fat Joe, that fat ass freak.
What did he say?
All, the way, up.
Yo, what's
a real G
H-I-J-K, L-M-N-O-P is for pimpin
Early mornin' stoned pimpin
I been down, been around
From the bottom to the top
Partyin' down with
and dumber and dumber and dumber and dumber and dumber
Shit, you won't survive the summer!
I've got additionals
Your shoes is ugly fat
That's you, rat
untouched by the man
Songs we used to sing used to mean something
Now they just bland like the drummer
Where's the real drummer? Michael B.
Mint
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