Lyrics:
down, pat my own back
They said I'm on fire, that's why he's drippin' in sweat
Pat myself down, pat down my track
Let's be real, that ass would look way
head
(What's inside your head)
We can be whatever you decide
(Oh whatever you decide)
Come with me
Let me take you by the hand
Pat a cake pat a cake
irons in the fire
Can’t win by being clever
Oh oh oh oh, even the strongest legs get tired
So pat me on the back
And say you are my sister
Whatever
you prayin' for a new religion
Murk you in the kitchen by the stoves
Step over the body, do the dishes
Bitch, my mama ain’t raise no bitch
Me and my
ain't have a 9 on me, they was lyin' on me
Court day with my old bird, they was spyin' on me
Tried to set me up, plantin' coke in my pocket
The beast pat
I told y'all motherfuckers I was coming back (oh shit)
What now, nigga? What now?
What? Brewster Projects, nigga
One shot, two shot, three
here we go
Just give me my dough and do
The show then I'm outtie yo!
Runnin' in the back seat
Sippin' on the Guinness
Fuckin' with a MAC-10 ready to be
G's and 5 five G's in one
[Chorus]
You ready to get loose, shawty, better be
Sittin' on them leather seats
If not, pat yo feet on the concrete
don’t need/
Me, feeling comfortable in my skin/
Not feeling lesser, because of my environment/
I’m impressed with, by what’s behind my eye lids/
Self
blast on yo ass I'm gone empty this clip
Nigga live by yo rep, but I ain't taking shit
When I slip in my disguise, letting you know what I'm about
And I'm
look
Old Brooklyn, Putnam Avenue crook, I've been token
All around the world, rooked it then, drive back in Brooklyn
Good looking, son, yo, son,
the doctor,
"She's very low," he said;
Went back to see my baby
Good God! She's lying there dead.
I went down to old Joe's barroom,
On the corner by
slowed down by the weight of my necklaces
Parked the Lexus in the projects, bitch, I'm reckless
Extra magazine, hopped on a jet with my Ebony chick
Cut Cold Air
Voltage Maybe I should try out for
A professional team and this sectional
Seam so what? Lab Rat Alarm time to take breaks
Back to the store
Verse One:
Seven in the morning, standing in the line
three fools in front of me, drinking on some wine
two in the back of me sucking on a joint
thinking I sell crack boy they see the money going out then come back let me see your gold shine call your project Pat let me see your online while you count
with God
How we still getting by
Count the backend at the backdoor, it's regular
Blow her back in and get to laughing when she standing up
Crack a bitch
today
I transformed, prayin' to the trees, God is takin' shape
My mother's mother followed me for years in her afterlife
Starin' at me on back of some
yearning for fairy hands
To steer the dormant soul back to life again
Remote heaven, like an island by all lines bypassed
At times seen drifting in
platinum
Back to the basics
You in danger at 16 with the beam
One in the chamber aimed at that 0 7
Got the chopper close by
Head bussa from the Bronx
up baby-girl put your hair back
Hurry up, barkeep, keep the brew comin'
Tryin' to drank 'till my back start slumpin'
Like old man, live by the old
by the CIA or the industry
Know where black hands be on black Glocks
No back stabs or sad plots, we let them rot
1-800-Nas&Hit, don't call us with
by day
But I spent my night time fighting tears back
I prayed and prayed and left messages but never got no hear back
Or so it seemed
A mustard
up on this track
Lauryn if you're listenin', Pras if you're listenin'
Gimme a call I'm in the lab in the Booga Basement
Y'all know my style, I'm still
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