Lyrics
I’m a hustler, peep it in the way that I walk.
Way that I talk, leaving bodies lined in chalk.
Quick to spit sh** , in projects and streets.
Chasing chedda in any weather, on the late night creep.
Cuz the streets be deep, all over the world.
Go to Chatelet in Paris, and get your dome curled.
Back like a wave cap, in front of your girl.
The scene so gruesome, she starts to earl.
Or go to the Blok, the projects in Germany.
Where n*** z kill over shoe’s and government cheese.
Peep the eight beat club, in Okinowa Japan.
Asian gangsta’s with razors, will chop off your hands.
Check the London party scene, dressed in LL Bean.
Get your pockets jacked, by a heroine fiend.
You can come to Amsterdam, for the bomb ass treez.
Where pimps walk with a limp, moving pounds and keys.
International Hustler, chasing chips taking trips.
Street life be world wide, like bloods and crips.
First n*** poppin they lip, is the one who drops.
Seeing there life fly by like hands on a clock.
Don’t test my authority, or lyrical superiority.
I’ll wipe the floor with thee, for looking in my direction.
Presidents that I’m getting, courtesy of a weapon.
Leaves you gasping on the floor, like to much bench pressing.
I’m one like KRS, don’t matter who claims the best.
Cuz a hollow through the vest, can give you eternal rest.
You can be touched, just ask Pac or Biggie.
Two of the illest catz ever, to bless this industry.
It’s a travesty, the way these wannabes try and copy.
It’s evident that they represent, something sloppy.
Call me poppi, cuz I sired many a son.
Street n*** z, out chasing ones with guns.
They don’t claim thug, gang colors or any borough.
They’ll get you at the movies, like the last action hero.
Carve out a zero, where your heart used to sit.
Put my CD in the hole, so you’ll learn how to spit.
International Hustler, chasing chips taking trips.
Street life be world wide, like bloods and crips.
First n*** poppin they lip, is the one who drops.
Seeing there life fly by like hands on a clock.
Microphone master, this is the final chapter.
Predatory like a raptor, lyrical body snatcher.
My words grab ya, and rip you outta your seat.
Blowing through streets, carrying treez and hot beats.
Hustling on the daily, fly high like Alex Haley.
People tell me, there’s no therapy made that can help me.
I have an addiction, affliction I just can’t shake.
Every morning when I wake, I’m thinking of chips to make.
I’ve tried health drinks, and extra vitamin D.
Possibly I need to see, a doctor in craniology.
To rationalize this disease, that’s hounding me.
Cuz honestly, I’ll slay a whole family of whack emcees.
Using a potato peeler, jumper cables and a battery.
Actually, I’d prefer along sword or machete.
So I could slice through muscle tissue, like cardboard.
On stage getting paid, at the source awards.
International Hustler, chasing chips taking trips.
Street life be world wide, like bloods and crips.
First n*** poppin they lip, is the one who drops.
Seeing there life fly by like hands on a clock.
