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Lyrics
I be dat Brooklyn don that got his hands on a crome/Bandana round the dome, wit 10 grams up on the lobe/Plus I get dough, to let ya know whos more real/So Im packin a steel if niggas approach for the billz/But Im back on the block lookin out
for my P.O./Cuz Im movin kilos from corner stores to the chinos/I'll blast and reload if a chump try to play me/And spark up a L if my day wasnt gravy/I stay strapped daily, and be aware of the cops/Cuz each day could be ma last day on the block/So I stay in a drop or eitha lay in a spot/
And try not have ma body decay in a box/Now you probably know the name A-S-E/I be that young buck from NY Not tennesee/Im sippin Hennessy mixed wit
extacy/Plus I roll wit cash to boost up the jealousy/I make it hot like microwavable foods/
And you dont me to pull out and start waving the tool/I leave you layed in a pool filled wit blood and guts/Whitcha face laced wit bruises and a couple cuts/Thats a promise, Now you know that my style fatal/I'll have my niggas rock you like if you was a cradle/And I dont care if niggas start to doubt me partner/I got bullets that'll leave em cryin worse then a toddler/And plus I got the power so fuck what you thought/I'll smoke you in public like a pack of newports/It's like every hood I step to, they show me love/I know cats that'll crip walk in front of OG bloods/That's real talk, You could catch me parked in the front/
Sparkin a blunt, wit a dead body tossed in the trunk/Im flossin like wut? ya cant touch this nemesis/I'll shoot at crack feens that sets foot in my premesis/You mad cuz I speak the truth and nothing but the truth/When it comes to dough I'm the first one to hit the booth/Heres the proof i got connects from La to Bk/To serve the feens the chronic that's laced wit yay/It's all real, Im
he reason niggas catch raw deals/Plus Im know cats hungry enough to eat a raw meal/And I stay hustin from every side and direction/That's why my cash is still risin like anirrection/So dont mention my name or try to press up on me/Cuz I'll have ya block rock shirts whicha face up on it/
Im the type to pop shit till you cant stand me yo/
And have you dodgin more shells then super mario/
Im in the streets of Brooklyn where the cops start booking/And get cha cash tookin while ya best friends lookin/So bring ya sons and brings ya guns so we could start sumthing/Cuz like a buffet you could keep the beef on comin/Im the type to put in work so I cop 10 hummers/And be around more fans then the godam summer/And I'll never show a smile cuz shit aint funny/Im the type to treat ya like faucets and leave ya nose runny/Buddy, I was naturally born for this rap shit/I pack clips, if i feel like i gotta clap shit/So dont ask shit, cuz ill have niggas doing backflips/And leave ya mothafuckin back split, now dats a fact bitch/So if you step to me try not to act hard/Cuz I got guns that'll blast thru ya front door and out cha backyard
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