[{"id":23275022,"name":"Rolling 50 Deep","trackName":"Rolling 50 Deep","artistName":"DJ Kay Slay","albumName":"Homage","duration":1044.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Thousand dollar shades on\nMy lil' homies boost 'em\nSongs bump in Houston like Trae\nTha Truth produced 'em silverback nigga\nI suggest you get used to him (Uh, huh)\nOG gangsta\n(Yeah) nine with the beamin' (Woo)\nBody in the water shit\nI thought that was streamin'\nCouple Yonkers niggas\nWe brought our whole team in (Y-O)\nD-Block homicide, look 'em in they faces\n(D-BLOCK) look how many shooters with us\nCount how many cases\nHardest in the world\n(Ghost) you ain't gotta ask (Uh, uh)\nWay before the quarantine, I was in a mask\nAsked niggas for six feet\nPop 'em in the ass you rap it like a G\nWasn't poppin' on the ave\nHoppin' out the DBS, gеttin' to the bag\nIf you gettin' in my way then\nI'm gеttin' to the mag (You know)\nTrue story (Yeah) it's too gory (Yeah)\nAnalyze the plug and the things\nHe could do for me, ghost\nLet's go\nAnytime I talk, you know the truth spoke\n(You know the truth spoke)\nAny rapper that ever tried me\nGot they booth smoked (Ha ha ha)\nY'all niggas play these bitches too close\nI'm calling plays\nHe ain't shootin' with that\nSeven like he Kukoč (Brrr)\nChange a bitch life when she\nLayin' with a hustler\nHad the same attitude when I\nWas playin' with a onion (Uh, huh)\nYour girl ask for cash\nYou might hand her a hunnid (What's that)\nThat's not enough to get a\nBra outta Banana Republic (Broke nigga)\nSay, big nuts and a bigger heart\nYou a scrub in these streets\nI play a bigger part\nBetter believe that you don't wanna\nSee a nigga start\n'Cause you'll be laid up with doctors\nLooking at a nigga chart\nYeah, they got me back snapping necks again\nSo you better call your family\nAnd your next of kin\n'Cause when we go to war, nigga\nIt's like a Mexican\nI cut your ass up like carpaccio, nigga\nExtra thin\nYo, I play with cold stoves so\nHot it'll break the Pyrex\nYellow and black Wu Nikes go\nWith the Pittsburgh Pirates\nFrozen medallions, they come from Mesopotamia\nThe Sheikhs carry me in the\nStreets out in Arabia\nTuna fish cans of black hash\nOpen caskets filled with rifles\nAnd Das EFX' mask\nRed moccasins, Emerald City is my metropolis\nI dust rappers\nI don't give a fuck what the topic is\nYou can never win, you're not us\nSave your best niggas\nMe, I'm just invincible plus\nI get tough digit's\nUsed to smoke water and dust, hands clutched\nNigga 2-0-19 Range look like a bus, nigga\nMionetto, the Chef is on ill levels\nBe the custom ill bezel, we get down\nAll the hills meddle\nReal rebels that run through the real ghettos\nGet money and chill, dollar\nBill rap gangsters, those my real fellows\nRambo rap, renegade rebel\n40 cal ammo when they clap to spray devil\nBandana up if you double\nWon't play your borough\nCan't avoid George Floyd 'til\nThe case is settled baseless devils\nEmpty out and replace the metal\nFace the treble, when it's bass\nWe raise the levels\nLove it, get it and think nothing of it\nMake amends then make it public\nWe ain't to fuck with\nRollin' 50 deep\nBloodhound hound dogs with sturdy teeth\nThe apex predator\nWolves huntin' a herd of sheep\nRevolutionary philosopher with\nSuperb mystique\nCurriculum of a college professor with\nThe urge to teach\nOverrated, ungrateful parasite\nUndeservin' leech\nShove the barrel right in your mouth\nYou don't deserve to speak\nThe Ku Klux Klan killer\nBury him in the Earth beneath\nDrown him in gasoline\nLight the fire and burn they sheets\nYeah, I'm a survivor, it's not a mystery\n(Nah) even when you makin' the shot\nIt's still a miss to me (Yeah)\nI'm CT fletcher, mixed with a little Mr t\n(Uh, huh) you on The Shade Room just hoping\nThat you don't miss the tea (Haha)\nBeam to your chest\nI swear that I won't miss your T\nScream to the refs, \"He flagrant\nHow could you miss the T?\"\nThe fifth degree, I could flip your Vee\nI call my stick Moses\nI split your waves in half\nLike he split the sea\nNiggas don't want smoke, trust me\nIt's all talk\nMention one of my niggas again\nAnd you'll taste salt\nBlood in your mouth, nigga\nDick in your spouse, nigga\nJust give me a reason to\nBring them things back out, nigga\nIt ain't 'bout a check, pussy nigga\nDon't check for me\nFor disrespect, send a bullet respectfully\nI put my niggas on\nYou know that we next to be\nRunnin' this rap shit, it's WHMG\nI wish a nigga would say hood in\nThe presence of a nigga that\nJust don't give a fuck, you better level up\n(Flash homie) put your bezel up\n(Ay) ain't nothin change\nIt's forever (Ante up)\nI come with the medal up (Aw shit)\nRight in VIP is where we'll settle up\nI need everything including the\nMöet in the cup brooklyn, New York\n(Legend) , pledging allegiance\nClowns that get out of bounds\nAnd don't follow procedures\nAyo, you fucking with the overbite boss\nI'll pull up on your block wavin' a torch\nLeave a corpse on your porch\nIt's killas in the room\nI smell Erykah Badu's incense when\nY'all niggas in the room\n('Cause y'all pussy)\nI will squeeze and clap (C'mon)\nBut I'll never discuss cheese with rats\n(Nigga) i'm the pallbearer that'll throw\nYou in the ground\nWith that blocka blocka b-blocka\nB-blocka blocka blaow!\nFrom The Dirt be the commission\nWe ain't askin' for permission to hit 'em\nWhile his children be with 'em, bag drops\nSlide up and twist 'em\nThirsty for clout on your laptop\nThat's how you get finished\nHomie was cappin'\nKnocked him out of his fitted\nPick up the product and zip it (Zip)\nYou dyin' to be famous\nI couldn't imagine it\nApplying only torture\nThese niggas softer than fabric\nFar from average, 357 on me\nKnockin' Cam' Horse & Carriage shit\nIf I was you, that'd be embarrassin'\nTold Slay if this rap don't pop\nFuck selling drops\nI be back up on that old shit\nMasks and gloves on like\nI'm tryna dodge COVID\nI'm making coats fresh like aerobics\nOver the stove with\nThe burner on like I'm Emeril Lagasse\nStreets sweep you off your feet\nLike Drake on Degrassi\nYou gon' need a colostomy bag\nIf you tryna stop mine came with drums on it\nBigger than Loretta Devine\nWith a shot better than Steph and\nLeBron, I'm on my grind, bitch\nPass the baton\nI'm rap crack packed in a bong\nOne immaculate blast and you gone\nMy craft is beyond mastered\nIt's blasphemy having me on a song\nFor less than three 16's like\nA chapter from John\nRappers get laid off when I'm working\nMan, I ain't even have to concentrate to\nGet this 8 off like a German\nThat's light work\nI can rap last or rhyme first\nPick ya poison, I'm poised\nThey picking my verse\nSee the dirtiest of the dirtiest\nThe godfather\nStill'll jack you with no gun\nChoke you with your car charger\nSlay hit me up on the gram and said, \"Damn\nYou don't even need a buzz to\nBe gettin' love from your fans\"\nI said it's a difference between\nA fan and a follower\nThese niggas went from dick-lickin'\nTo being straight swallowers\nFollow or see a trend and then follow\nThat's a no hand\nNiggas wanna be like Chicago\nScared to death to go there (Yeah! Yeah)\nUh, throw the V's up for victory\nGOAT when they mention me, dope era history\nGettin' violated, annihilated\nI only do Sanaa Lathan\nFire Satan, God body, I got the choir hatin'\nRich and rude, plus my lifestyle is ravishing\nLaying wood on your wife\nI swear it's a cabinet\nOakland inhabitant, lifestyle extravagant\nMe going broke? Yeah right\nCouldn't imagine it\nFuck the system, it's a premise\nThese visions mentally different\nNever be victims, equity grippin'\nMelodies is meant to be different\nRemember the rhythm\nMarches when we melanin pigment\nEmbedded and gifted, we said it and did it\nRaise a power fist\n24/7 just look where I was at\nThey fueled by cowardice and called us\nPowerless and proud of it sucka shit\nWe gon' keep the Hubble like a mothership\nNah, we went from raised up kings and\nQueens just like our mothers did\nAllow me to do what I do best\nThen while you rest on my chest\nThere's a huge S\nNiggas that's talkin' that real shit\nOnly a few left, but not a huge threat\nSend shots at a Flint nigga\nWhat they send back, you gon' need two vests\nSo, please stay off my dick 'less\nYou got a fat ass and two huge breasts\nI been to hell and back and I\nFucked the devil in a blue dress\nGive me the motive, they know I'ma show up\nAnd feelin' me make 'em like you less\nIn this industry, all I see is pussies and\nDickheads like group sex\nThey waitin' for what I'ma do next\nAnd I'm lookin' around like who's next\nConnor\nHit 'em in the body like a millimeter\nWith about a minute for the rhythm\nA lobotomy\nIf anybody pull it when they wanna\nGet up in the middle of the way I do\nI'm never givin' an apology\nOughta be up in the talk\nI'm one of the better veterans\nWho murderin' and get up on the beat\nAnd be the one up in the middle\nOf the battle and I'm ready\nFor the war, I be the one and when I do it\nThey retreat\nWith the feelin' of a breeze of a Great Lake\nAutomatic and it's cinematic when\nI'm in the attic\nAnd they get erratic on the bass\nPut 'em in a little bit of panic\nAnd I make 'em wanna vacate\nKay Slay just made a way\nTo make it not stay safe when I lay eight\nIt's like I lay tape\nLike I'm Biggie, the late great, Twista\nFuck all the lyrical shit, bitch\nI'm a game spitter\nAnd I tried to told you that I got bars\n(Like what?) just like a phone charge\nComin' up out of the slum\nThe gut of the beast (The gut of the beast)\nI don't need no iron, I'm already creased\n(Already creased) immune to violence\n(Violence) ambulance and police (Police)\nGotta keep your silence\n(Silence) out here in the streets (Streets)\nRappers don't rap like me\nI don't rap like them (Rap like them)\nI'll pull your card just like a SIM\n(Like a SIM, biatch)\nYou know where I be, drinkin' in the lobby\nSmokin' on gelati\nSlidin' off with a thottie (Huh?)\nStomach on a gate\nMade a quick stop to Haji's (Yo)\nWalk in any club in New York with no ID\nShorty think 'cause her ass fat\nShe could line me i'm like a dead end\nYou can't get nothing by me (Stop it)\nI'm Nino Man, I keep shooters behind me\nThey knew how I was comin'\nAlready when 'Kiss signed me\nY'all Johnny come lately, I was on time\nOn the road like white lines\nReadin' all signs\nCleanin' off knives after tallyin'\nWhat was taken\nYour man got pinched, my man with him\nHe said he breakin'\nSaid he came out the gate\nStrong but now he waverin'\nSaid the G's fadin' him 'cause\nHe wouldn't put paint in\nMy name strongest spot you could put a leg in\nFact rap shooter\nYou know that I stay wavin'\nIt's Mysonne! Welcome to the revolution\nThis is gon' be televised\nCoward dies a thousand deaths\nReal nigga never dies\nI had to memorize the rules of the game\nI learned from the fools and\nGot jewels from the lames\nRefuse to entertain you sucker niggas on IG\nI'm outside every day, nigga, find me\nSee, you can try me, just don't 6-9 me\nRealest nigga alive is how you define me\nBlatant with my right hand\nSneaky my left hook\nAll my peers know my gear stuck on Westbrook\nYou claim to be the greatest\nAll over the sport but all I see is a nigga\nShakin' while holdin' the torch\nProceed, go 'head, try to take the lead\nAnd then tell us how it feels not to succeed\nUp to par and up to speed\nYou already know my body\nHow many more bars do you niggas need?\nGet shot in broad day fuckin' 'round in LA\nHome of the gang bang where\nWe let our nuts hang\nPeel your motherfuckin' cap\nI put the city on the map\nCrackhouse in '92 is what new\nNiggas call a trap\nI'ma keep it gangsta 'til they put\nMe in the fuckin' dirt\nCali keeps it grimy cuz\nTexacos gettin' work\n'Berg nigga, hair trigger, West Coast\nHell most khakis, chucks, low-riding\nWhite tee's and homicides\nThis lightning, son of a tee\nPrevalent Hebrew\nKryptonian, only trip on niggas I see through\nBorn sinner, habitually illuminative behavior\nI don't fuck with your savior if\nHe ain't lookin' like we do nigga vegan\nBut I still enjoy beefin' with pigs\nNot a Corleone\nA Luca Brasi could sleep with the fish\nSend 'em somethin' sleazy so\nI could teach you\nThat I could reach you and how we\nDo that hog meat real greasy\nUh, Slay told me to get the weaponry\nSo I wrote the verse before\nHe got finished textin' me\nA spliff, and in about 60 seconds\nI've written destiny i'm glowin', nigga\nLamont Coleman been sittin' next to me\nYeah, rapper remarkably, savage authority\nClappin' the Smith &, Daryl Dixon\nLook like I'm practicin' archery\nThe walking dead\nTell every rapper that spar with me\nCooler than Billy Dee with\nThe cigar in Mahogany\nFuck your favorite rapper, bitch\nI'm not a actor\nIt's games and laughter towards\nPains and pastors\nThe aftermath for the matter with\nFo'-five will make 'em scatter\nIt's like a Now or Later\nYou prefer the latter\nWhat's understood is overstood\nYou could be a bitch and a\nSnitch and still rep the hood\nYour bars are no good, we don't trust you\nNot you, not one biff, you government\nIt's Gordo!\nSpeak up, you don't understand still?\nThe heat up, I bet you understand steel\nGet you beat up or put you in a standstill\nIt's rush hour and traffic's\nAt a standstill\nSlay know I'm mad I missed his album (Facts)\nBut I don't play, like math\nThe kid's a problem (Uh, huh)\nDifferent kind of caliber of problem (What?)\nAnd my whips look like algebra problems\nLoaded Lux\nI got a page for each chapter, Slay\nYou on your job\nUnc', you raisin' up the bar\n(What?) It's beats and rappers\nWe gon' have to build, niggas got talents\nBut they soundin' off balance, man\nYou ain't even kill\nYoungin in the sports, it's not a loss\nBut all that Tommy got Hilfiger\nHe wasn't cut from this cloth\nBut who's the judge the way\nThey threw him the book?\nIt seem kinda fishy the way\nYou got off the hook\nI'm jaded\nDrunk in the whip playin' Jadakiss\nNah, I ain't worried 'bout\nWill and Jada biz you should get with me\nMayweather with victories\nIce Tiffany like crystally, tight symmetry\nFlights to Italy and Congo\nHit 'em with the calm flow\nMamis follow everywhere the Don goes\nPlush condos, ice in the wing like Rondo's\nMillion dollar convos, we on those\nA lotta clowns in the game\nThey mama should've aborted 'em\nSnitch and come home\nY'all people still supportin' them\nI'm Makaveli trained\nTestament of his tutelage\nReally had to be outside\nYou couldn't Google it\nIf Noble Outlaw known to spit the truest shit\nOver twenty years in this game\nStill doin' it\nThugger peace, Kadafi, Fatal Hussein\nShout outs to Kay Slay and EDI Mean\nWe on a mission\nThieves in the tab but we get 'em\nNo more playin' the victim\nWe gon' spray 'em and split 'em\nKay Slay say \"Hi!\"t 'em, so we did 'em\nIt's done black and brown in this bitch\nAnd we all for one better be cautious, son\n'cause the time is now\nLook, no more talk, where the riders now?\nWe ain't even tryna hide it\nWe ain't hard to find\nAnd I ain't got shit for a\nBitch but a hard time\nYeah, picture me sacrificin' integrity\n(Yeah) picture me gassin' the gaslighters\nI prophetically foreshadow the shallow\nEnded the pool you spoke from\nIf you believe in idols\nWhat happens when you invoke one?\nUtter insanity\nThe first rapper to take me out of\nContext can expect a fuckin' calamity\nThis is much deeper than\nMusic or surface vanity\nA soundtrack to bounce back\nYou understandin' me?\nThe hustler, I supply smokers\nBut eventually I'm tryna get a\nB like my guy Hova\nI got this chick 'bout to drive over\nShe bisexual\nBut take the whole pole 'cause she bipolar\nLook, she got some amazing puss'\nSo I'm shootin' my shot\nBut not what Tory did to Megan foot\nThey shootin', brrat, I made you look\nSo they can see how afraid you look, facts\nThey gon' miss me when I'm all gone\nTell 'em bury me with legends\nAnd the drug lords\nNext to ST, put me with Dimissio\nAt my wake, all my bitches in a different row\nGotta stop rappin' 'bout dyin'\nLet me switch it up\nKeys to the Lamb' truck\nThey gon' see me act up\nLove a bitch who got lip\nFillers and her ass done\nCap, what? Nigga, who? We about that action\nCedar or don, milk crate, G's in the pond\nHold the dice, NYPD alarm, need to be calm\nNothin' but gunshots, kids need to be home\nBlock so hot, the fire hydrant need to be on\n(Harlem)\nThe fiends buy it, have 'em for days wired\nServin' out the Hyatt\nWantin' to be Dave Hyatt\nCountin' at the table\nThe weed and the cigs fired\nI'm out of town\nTrunk full of ki's and the plate expired\nHave me checkin' your chest, no backgammon\nThe MAC blammin'\nThis rag hammer get too fly\nYou get crash landed\nI slap fam for wackness\nSlackin' their trash fam\nTrain y'all bitches\nNo smashin' in the mass transit (Pause)\nB-b-b-boss, look at the scars on this hymn\nCouldn't hear 'em with bars\nI'm the concrete jungle gym\nShinin' through this wildlife, Jungle Jim\nNamed my Glock 19-COVID\nGot y'all up on punishment\nCertain suckas used to be homies\nKnow you put 'em in chalk\nWhen they see you try to walk the\nOther direction and play it off\nBut I be clean up out that rental with\nThat flame comin' cleaner than a AR\nThem suckas know I kill, rush\nI'ma spray y'all buck buck, blow blow\nThought I was a lame, I brought the pain\nWhat ya think now? Know that I'm a king\nWhat you should've did was bow\nPapoose, let loose\nPut them bitches in the ground\nAin't no arguments, yo\nYou know I spit the hardest\nAs far as this rap thing, toured continents\nBeen a monster since I stepped on the scene\n'Fore this rap game in the\nZone slingin' to fiends\nChrome thing in my jeans, diamonds dancin'\nFlawless, lookin' clean\nPorsche truck lookin' mean\nI'm lawless, I like to floss in Europeans\nGruff stay on his deen\nStay chasin' the green\nThis that heat rock, the way the beat knock\nCame a long way from movin' sheet rock\nNot a CL Smooth and I feel like Pete Rock\nThe way I be paranoid, I keep the heat cocked\nWhen you the plug, you don't even get to eat\nPhone clickin' every minute\nI rarely miss a beat my weed plug is Asian\nI keep the thugs blazin'\nBefore I let the waves spin\nI rock braids then\nI don't give a fuck about niggas\nThat ain't on my side\nI don't care who they kill\nLong as none of my niggas die\nViolate the gang\nSomebody catchin' the head shot\nWe ain't rattin'\nWe gon' beat whatever cases the Feds got\nFuck mainstream, in the streets I'm relevant\nThis for my niggas that been locked\nUp since Bush was the president\nYou gon' die broke and\nKids growin' up poor, nigga\nYour baby mom is regrettin'\nFuckin' you raw, nigga\nBring your crew, they could visit the fish\n'Cause them niggas'll get wet for shorts\nLike a midget just pissed\nYou shoot like you got permission to miss\nYou wouldn't clap nickels by a fountain\nWith yo' bitch in a wish\nI don't ballroom brawl\nFuck a kick and a fist\nWhen I wrestled the bulldog\nThrew my wrist in a twist when we was kids\nThey let us pick the shit up for kicks\nBut my nigga just caught a trip\nFor a stick and a brick, nigga\nI'm quittin' quarantine on all tracks\nFall back\nI'm so all that, I got a mask on my ballsack\n(Rrah) even my microphone coughin'\nFiend snitchin'\nToo vicious while kissin' more bad\nBitches than Richard Dawson (Rah)\nFamily Feud, calamity due\nYour dog, I stand with any man\nI hand 'em a can of dog food (Rrah)\nSo call me black Santa Claus\nI put mistletoe on my drawers so\nFake rappers can suck me off\nYo soy capitán, yo no soy marinero\nMeaning if we was a 10, I'd be the 1\nYou'd be the 0\nAnd no, I'm not the GOAT, motherfucker\nI'm the hero\nShapiro, dinero, I'm the Alpha\nYou're the Romero\nI blaze trails like I'm Melo in Portland\nI ain't rich out this bitch\nI'm no Palmer Cortlandt\nNo mansion, no yachts, and no fleet of cars\nBut I'm a beast on this mic\nYou couldn't find sweeter bars\nKing Truth play in the city\nI'm the recruiter game time\nSteppin' away and you'll meet a shooter\nReal streets send 'em a message, no computer\nHit the block\nI leave niggas missin' like it's Bermuda\nAir where them niggas was\nFightin' and pitchin' crack\nAny day I could send you a coroner\nGet you packed\nNever worry about the nigga who talkin'\nHe in an act asshole, get your whole house\nFlipped when I react\nIf the sun don't shine forever\nI got 30 in this bitch with a beam\nI'll 9 whoever\nGet your mask shot off your face, nigga\nSocial distancin'\nBut I still will spank niggas\nAyo, Slay, they ain't like that\nThe chopper causin' massacres\nShake the whip\nHad these niggas crawlin' over passengers\nThat citizen app get to goin' off\nLatex gloves for the drill\nNiggas butter soft\n45th, I'm a shooter\nNiggas know I shoot shit\nPull up, we gon' make it hot\nWe ain't on that cool shit\nGreasy, nuisance, easy, ruthless\nHit 'em 'cause I'm wild then I'm out\nDeuces\nCome to 9G, I keep a pair, that's pitty pack\nI don't rock designers, but I'll line ya\nThat's a Fendi fact\nI'm from where if niggas see\nYour chain, they like, \"Give me that\"\nBut if you say my name\nYou might get it back, mob Ties\nReach is on, FEMA bones, speakers on\nNia Long\nLears flown, Aaliyah's home, features on\nKing of throne\nTrippie Redd exterior, seat is on hematom'\nRims gleamin' chrome\nWhip leanin' on adrenochrome\nPeons tryna reach me, I'm science\nMy seeds travel for eons\nThrough Keedron Bryant\nMe and 'Preem and Obama just\nSippin' Pino in yarmulkes\nLickin' cream off of models\nWith Miss Marina Abramovich\nI don't sympathize for wack\nHoes and goofy guys\nSeen niggas die over rap woes and pussy pride\n'Cause Snoopy cried or 'cause Pookie lied\nY'all watch the mag blow and I'll watch\nBoth your eyes do the Toosie Slide","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Rolling 50 Deep\n  artist: DJ Kay Slay\n  album: Homage\n  duration_ms: 1044000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Thousand dollar shades on\n  My lil' homies boost 'em\n  Songs bump in Houston like Trae\n  Tha Truth produced 'em silverback nigga\n  I suggest you get used to him (Uh, huh)\n  OG gangsta\n  (Yeah) nine with the beamin' (Woo)\n  Body in the water shit\n  I thought that was streamin'\n  Couple Yonkers niggas\n  We brought our whole team in (Y-O)\n  D-Block homicide, look 'em in they faces\n  (D-BLOCK) look how many shooters with us\n  Count how many cases\n  Hardest in the world\n  (Ghost) you ain't gotta ask (Uh, uh)\n  Way before the quarantine, I was in a mask\n  Asked niggas for six feet\n  Pop 'em in the ass you rap it like a G\n  Wasn't poppin' on the ave\n  Hoppin' out the DBS, gеttin' to the bag\n  If you gettin' in my way then\n  I'm gеttin' to the mag (You know)\n  True story (Yeah) it's too gory (Yeah)\n  Analyze the plug and the things\n  He could do for me, ghost\n  Let's go\n  Anytime I talk, you know the truth spoke\n  (You know the truth spoke)\n  Any rapper that ever tried me\n  Got they booth smoked (Ha ha ha)\n  Y'all niggas play these bitches too close\n  I'm calling plays\n  He ain't shootin' with that\n  Seven like he Kukoč (Brrr)\n  Change a bitch life when she\n  Layin' with a hustler\n  Had the same attitude when I\n  Was playin' with a onion (Uh, huh)\n  Your girl ask for cash\n  You might hand her a hunnid (What's that)\n  That's not enough to get a\n  Bra outta Banana Republic (Broke nigga)\n  Say, big nuts and a bigger heart\n  You a scrub in these streets\n  I play a bigger part\n  Better believe that you don't wanna\n  See a nigga start\n  'Cause you'll be laid up with doctors\n  Looking at a nigga chart\n  Yeah, they got me back snapping necks again\n  So you better call your family\n  And your next of kin\n  'Cause when we go to war, nigga\n  It's like a Mexican\n  I cut your ass up like carpaccio, nigga\n  Extra thin\n  Yo, I play with cold stoves so\n  Hot it'll break the Pyrex\n  Yellow and black Wu Nikes go\n  With the Pittsburgh Pirates\n  Frozen medallions, they come from Mesopotamia\n  The Sheikhs carry me in the\n  Streets out in Arabia\n  Tuna fish cans of black hash\n  Open caskets filled with rifles\n  And Das EFX' mask\n  Red moccasins, Emerald City is my metropolis\n  I dust rappers\n  I don't give a fuck what the topic is\n  You can never win, you're not us\n  Save your best niggas\n  Me, I'm just invincible plus\n  I get tough digit's\n  Used to smoke water and dust, hands clutched\n  Nigga 2-0-19 Range look like a bus, nigga\n  Mionetto, the Chef is on ill levels\n  Be the custom ill bezel, we get down\n  All the hills meddle\n  Real rebels that run through the real ghettos\n  Get money and chill, dollar\n  Bill rap gangsters, those my real fellows\n  Rambo rap, renegade rebel\n  40 cal ammo when they clap to spray devil\n  Bandana up if you double\n  Won't play your borough\n  Can't avoid George Floyd 'til\n  The case is settled baseless devils\n  Empty out and replace the metal\n  Face the treble, when it's bass\n  We raise the levels\n  Love it, get it and think nothing of it\n  Make amends then make it public\n  We ain't to fuck with\n  Rollin' 50 deep\n  Bloodhound hound dogs with sturdy teeth\n  The apex predator\n  Wolves huntin' a herd of sheep\n  Revolutionary philosopher with\n  Superb mystique\n  Curriculum of a college professor with\n  The urge to teach\n  Overrated, ungrateful parasite\n  Undeservin' leech\n  Shove the barrel right in your mouth\n  You don't deserve to speak\n  The Ku Klux Klan killer\n  Bury him in the Earth beneath\n  Drown him in gasoline\n  Light the fire and burn they sheets\n  Yeah, I'm a survivor, it's not a mystery\n  (Nah) even when you makin' the shot\n  It's still a miss to me (Yeah)\n  I'm CT fletcher, mixed with a little Mr t\n  (Uh, huh) you on The Shade Room just hoping\n  That you don't miss the tea (Haha)\n  Beam to your chest\n  I swear that I won't miss your T\n  Scream to the refs, \"He flagrant\n  How could you miss the T?\"\n  The fifth degree, I could flip your Vee\n  I call my stick Moses\n  I split your waves in half\n  Like he split the sea\n  Niggas don't want smoke, trust me\n  It's all talk\n  Mention one of my niggas again\n  And you'll taste salt\n  Blood in your mouth, nigga\n  Dick in your spouse, nigga\n  Just give me a reason to\n  Bring them things back out, nigga\n  It ain't 'bout a check, pussy nigga\n  Don't check for me\n  For disrespect, send a bullet respectfully\n  I put my niggas on\n  You know that we next to be\n  Runnin' this rap shit, it's WHMG\n  I wish a nigga would say hood in\n  The presence of a nigga that\n  Just don't give a fuck, you better level up\n  (Flash homie) put your bezel up\n  (Ay) ain't nothin change\n  It's forever (Ante up)\n  I come with the medal up (Aw shit)\n  Right in VIP is where we'll settle up\n  I need everything including the\n  Möet in the cup brooklyn, New York\n  (Legend) , pledging allegiance\n  Clowns that get out of bounds\n  And don't follow procedures\n  Ayo, you fucking with the overbite boss\n  I'll pull up on your block wavin' a torch\n  Leave a corpse on your porch\n  It's killas in the room\n  I smell Erykah Badu's incense when\n  Y'all niggas in the room\n  ('Cause y'all pussy)\n  I will squeeze and clap (C'mon)\n  But I'll never discuss cheese with rats\n  (Nigga) i'm the pallbearer that'll throw\n  You in the ground\n  With that blocka blocka b-blocka\n  B-blocka blocka blaow!\n  From The Dirt be the commission\n  We ain't askin' for permission to hit 'em\n  While his children be with 'em, bag drops\n  Slide up and twist 'em\n  Thirsty for clout on your laptop\n  That's how you get finished\n  Homie was cappin'\n  Knocked him out of his fitted\n  Pick up the product and zip it (Zip)\n  You dyin' to be famous\n  I couldn't imagine it\n  Applying only torture\n  These niggas softer than fabric\n  Far from average, 357 on me\n  Knockin' Cam' Horse & Carriage shit\n  If I was you, that'd be embarrassin'\n  Told Slay if this rap don't pop\n  Fuck selling drops\n  I be back up on that old shit\n  Masks and gloves on like\n  I'm tryna dodge COVID\n  I'm making coats fresh like aerobics\n  Over the stove with\n  The burner on like I'm Emeril Lagasse\n  Streets sweep you off your feet\n  Like Drake on Degrassi\n  You gon' need a colostomy bag\n  If you tryna stop mine came with drums on it\n  Bigger than Loretta Devine\n  With a shot better than Steph and\n  LeBron, I'm on my grind, bitch\n  Pass the baton\n  I'm rap crack packed in a bong\n  One immaculate blast and you gone\n  My craft is beyond mastered\n  It's blasphemy having me on a song\n  For less than three 16's like\n  A chapter from John\n  Rappers get laid off when I'm working\n  Man, I ain't even have to concentrate to\n  Get this 8 off like a German\n  That's light work\n  I can rap last or rhyme first\n  Pick ya poison, I'm poised\n  They picking my verse\n  See the dirtiest of the dirtiest\n  The godfather\n  Still'll jack you with no gun\n  Choke you with your car charger\n  Slay hit me up on the gram and said, \"Damn\n  You don't even need a buzz to\n  Be gettin' love from your fans\"\n  I said it's a difference between\n  A fan and a follower\n  These niggas went from dick-lickin'\n  To being straight swallowers\n  Follow or see a trend and then follow\n  That's a no hand\n  Niggas wanna be like Chicago\n  Scared to death to go there (Yeah! Yeah)\n  Uh, throw the V's up for victory\n  GOAT when they mention me, dope era history\n  Gettin' violated, annihilated\n  I only do Sanaa Lathan\n  Fire Satan, God body, I got the choir hatin'\n  Rich and rude, plus my lifestyle is ravishing\n  Laying wood on your wife\n  I swear it's a cabinet\n  Oakland inhabitant, lifestyle extravagant\n  Me going broke? Yeah right\n  Couldn't imagine it\n  Fuck the system, it's a premise\n  These visions mentally different\n  Never be victims, equity grippin'\n  Melodies is meant to be different\n  Remember the rhythm\n  Marches when we melanin pigment\n  Embedded and gifted, we said it and did it\n  Raise a power fist\n  24/7 just look where I was at\n  They fueled by cowardice and called us\n  Powerless and proud of it sucka shit\n  We gon' keep the Hubble like a mothership\n  Nah, we went from raised up kings and\n  Queens just like our mothers did\n  Allow me to do what I do best\n  Then while you rest on my chest\n  There's a huge S\n  Niggas that's talkin' that real shit\n  Only a few left, but not a huge threat\n  Send shots at a Flint nigga\n  What they send back, you gon' need two vests\n  So, please stay off my dick 'less\n  You got a fat ass and two huge breasts\n  I been to hell and back and I\n  Fucked the devil in a blue dress\n  Give me the motive, they know I'ma show up\n  And feelin' me make 'em like you less\n  In this industry, all I see is pussies and\n  Dickheads like group sex\n  They waitin' for what I'ma do next\n  And I'm lookin' around like who's next\n  Connor\n  Hit 'em in the body like a millimeter\n  With about a minute for the rhythm\n  A lobotomy\n  If anybody pull it when they wanna\n  Get up in the middle of the way I do\n  I'm never givin' an apology\n  Oughta be up in the talk\n  I'm one of the better veterans\n  Who murderin' and get up on the beat\n  And be the one up in the middle\n  Of the battle and I'm ready\n  For the war, I be the one and when I do it\n  They retreat\n  With the feelin' of a breeze of a Great Lake\n  Automatic and it's cinematic when\n  I'm in the attic\n  And they get erratic on the bass\n  Put 'em in a little bit of panic\n  And I make 'em wanna vacate\n  Kay Slay just made a way\n  To make it not stay safe when I lay eight\n  It's like I lay tape\n  Like I'm Biggie, the late great, Twista\n  Fuck all the lyrical shit, bitch\n  I'm a game spitter\n  And I tried to told you that I got bars\n  (Like what?) just like a phone charge\n  Comin' up out of the slum\n  The gut of the beast (The gut of the beast)\n  I don't need no iron, I'm already creased\n  (Already creased) immune to violence\n  (Violence) ambulance and police (Police)\n  Gotta keep your silence\n  (Silence) out here in the streets (Streets)\n  Rappers don't rap like me\n  I don't rap like them (Rap like them)\n  I'll pull your card just like a SIM\n  (Like a SIM, biatch)\n  You know where I be, drinkin' in the lobby\n  Smokin' on gelati\n  Slidin' off with a thottie (Huh?)\n  Stomach on a gate\n  Made a quick stop to Haji's (Yo)\n  Walk in any club in New York with no ID\n  Shorty think 'cause her ass fat\n  She could line me i'm like a dead end\n  You can't get nothing by me (Stop it)\n  I'm Nino Man, I keep shooters behind me\n  They knew how I was comin'\n  Already when 'Kiss signed me\n  Y'all Johnny come lately, I was on time\n  On the road like white lines\n  Readin' all signs\n  Cleanin' off knives after tallyin'\n  What was taken\n  Your man got pinched, my man with him\n  He said he breakin'\n  Said he came out the gate\n  Strong but now he waverin'\n  Said the G's fadin' him 'cause\n  He wouldn't put paint in\n  My name strongest spot you could put a leg in\n  Fact rap shooter\n  You know that I stay wavin'\n  It's Mysonne! Welcome to the revolution\n  This is gon' be televised\n  Coward dies a thousand deaths\n  Real nigga never dies\n  I had to memorize the rules of the game\n  I learned from the fools and\n  Got jewels from the lames\n  Refuse to entertain you sucker niggas on IG\n  I'm outside every day, nigga, find me\n  See, you can try me, just don't 6-9 me\n  Realest nigga alive is how you define me\n  Blatant with my right hand\n  Sneaky my left hook\n  All my peers know my gear stuck on Westbrook\n  You claim to be the greatest\n  All over the sport but all I see is a nigga\n  Shakin' while holdin' the torch\n  Proceed, go 'head, try to take the lead\n  And then tell us how it feels not to succeed\n  Up to par and up to speed\n  You already know my body\n  How many more bars do you niggas need?\n  Get shot in broad day fuckin' 'round in LA\n  Home of the gang bang where\n  We let our nuts hang\n  Peel your motherfuckin' cap\n  I put the city on the map\n  Crackhouse in '92 is what new\n  Niggas call a trap\n  I'ma keep it gangsta 'til they put\n  Me in the fuckin' dirt\n  Cali keeps it grimy cuz\n  Texacos gettin' work\n  'Berg nigga, hair trigger, West Coast\n  Hell most khakis, chucks, low-riding\n  White tee's and homicides\n  This lightning, son of a tee\n  Prevalent Hebrew\n  Kryptonian, only trip on niggas I see through\n  Born sinner, habitually illuminative behavior\n  I don't fuck with your savior if\n  He ain't lookin' like we do nigga vegan\n  But I still enjoy beefin' with pigs\n  Not a Corleone\n  A Luca Brasi could sleep with the fish\n  Send 'em somethin' sleazy so\n  I could teach you\n  That I could reach you and how we\n  Do that hog meat real greasy\n  Uh, Slay told me to get the weaponry\n  So I wrote the verse before\n  He got finished textin' me\n  A spliff, and in about 60 seconds\n  I've written destiny i'm glowin', nigga\n  Lamont Coleman been sittin' next to me\n  Yeah, rapper remarkably, savage authority\n  Clappin' the Smith &, Daryl Dixon\n  Look like I'm practicin' archery\n  The walking dead\n  Tell every rapper that spar with me\n  Cooler than Billy Dee with\n  The cigar in Mahogany\n  Fuck your favorite rapper, bitch\n  I'm not a actor\n  It's games and laughter towards\n  Pains and pastors\n  The aftermath for the matter with\n  Fo'-five will make 'em scatter\n  It's like a Now or Later\n  You prefer the latter\n  What's understood is overstood\n  You could be a bitch and a\n  Snitch and still rep the hood\n  Your bars are no good, we don't trust you\n  Not you, not one biff, you government\n  It's Gordo!\n  Speak up, you don't understand still?\n  The heat up, I bet you understand steel\n  Get you beat up or put you in a standstill\n  It's rush hour and traffic's\n  At a standstill\n  Slay know I'm mad I missed his album (Facts)\n  But I don't play, like math\n  The kid's a problem (Uh, huh)\n  Different kind of caliber of problem (What?)\n  And my whips look like algebra problems\n  Loaded Lux\n  I got a page for each chapter, Slay\n  You on your job\n  Unc', you raisin' up the bar\n  (What?) It's beats and rappers\n  We gon' have to build, niggas got talents\n  But they soundin' off balance, man\n  You ain't even kill\n  Youngin in the sports, it's not a loss\n  But all that Tommy got Hilfiger\n  He wasn't cut from this cloth\n  But who's the judge the way\n  They threw him the book?\n  It seem kinda fishy the way\n  You got off the hook\n  I'm jaded\n  Drunk in the whip playin' Jadakiss\n  Nah, I ain't worried 'bout\n  Will and Jada biz you should get with me\n  Mayweather with victories\n  Ice Tiffany like crystally, tight symmetry\n  Flights to Italy and Congo\n  Hit 'em with the calm flow\n  Mamis follow everywhere the Don goes\n  Plush condos, ice in the wing like Rondo's\n  Million dollar convos, we on those\n  A lotta clowns in the game\n  They mama should've aborted 'em\n  Snitch and come home\n  Y'all people still supportin' them\n  I'm Makaveli trained\n  Testament of his tutelage\n  Really had to be outside\n  You couldn't Google it\n  If Noble Outlaw known to spit the truest shit\n  Over twenty years in this game\n  Still doin' it\n  Thugger peace, Kadafi, Fatal Hussein\n  Shout outs to Kay Slay and EDI Mean\n  We on a mission\n  Thieves in the tab but we get 'em\n  No more playin' the victim\n  We gon' spray 'em and split 'em\n  Kay Slay say \"Hi!\"t 'em, so we did 'em\n  It's done black and brown in this bitch\n  And we all for one better be cautious, son\n  'cause the time is now\n  Look, no more talk, where the riders now?\n  We ain't even tryna hide it\n  We ain't hard to find\n  And I ain't got shit for a\n  Bitch but a hard time\n  Yeah, picture me sacrificin' integrity\n  (Yeah) picture me gassin' the gaslighters\n  I prophetically foreshadow the shallow\n  Ended the pool you spoke from\n  If you believe in idols\n  What happens when you invoke one?\n  Utter insanity\n  The first rapper to take me out of\n  Context can expect a fuckin' calamity\n  This is much deeper than\n  Music or surface vanity\n  A soundtrack to bounce back\n  You understandin' me?\n  The hustler, I supply smokers\n  But eventually I'm tryna get a\n  B like my guy Hova\n  I got this chick 'bout to drive over\n  She bisexual\n  But take the whole pole 'cause she bipolar\n  Look, she got some amazing puss'\n  So I'm shootin' my shot\n  But not what Tory did to Megan foot\n  They shootin', brrat, I made you look\n  So they can see how afraid you look, facts\n  They gon' miss me when I'm all gone\n  Tell 'em bury me with legends\n  And the drug lords\n  Next to ST, put me with Dimissio\n  At my wake, all my bitches in a different row\n  Gotta stop rappin' 'bout dyin'\n  Let me switch it up\n  Keys to the Lamb' truck\n  They gon' see me act up\n  Love a bitch who got lip\n  Fillers and her ass done\n  Cap, what? Nigga, who? We about that action\n  Cedar or don, milk crate, G's in the pond\n  Hold the dice, NYPD alarm, need to be calm\n  Nothin' but gunshots, kids need to be home\n  Block so hot, the fire hydrant need to be on\n  (Harlem)\n  The fiends buy it, have 'em for days wired\n  Servin' out the Hyatt\n  Wantin' to be Dave Hyatt\n  Countin' at the table\n  The weed and the cigs fired\n  I'm out of town\n  Trunk full of ki's and the plate expired\n  Have me checkin' your chest, no backgammon\n  The MAC blammin'\n  This rag hammer get too fly\n  You get crash landed\n  I slap fam for wackness\n  Slackin' their trash fam\n  Train y'all bitches\n  No smashin' in the mass transit (Pause)\n  B-b-b-boss, look at the scars on this hymn\n  Couldn't hear 'em with bars\n  I'm the concrete jungle gym\n  Shinin' through this wildlife, Jungle Jim\n  Named my Glock 19-COVID\n  Got y'all up on punishment\n  Certain suckas used to be homies\n  Know you put 'em in chalk\n  When they see you try to walk the\n  Other direction and play it off\n  But I be clean up out that rental with\n  That flame comin' cleaner than a AR\n  Them suckas know I kill, rush\n  I'ma spray y'all buck buck, blow blow\n  Thought I was a lame, I brought the pain\n  What ya think now? Know that I'm a king\n  What you should've did was bow\n  Papoose, let loose\n  Put them bitches in the ground\n  Ain't no arguments, yo\n  You know I spit the hardest\n  As far as this rap thing, toured continents\n  Been a monster since I stepped on the scene\n  'Fore this rap game in the\n  Zone slingin' to fiends\n  Chrome thing in my jeans, diamonds dancin'\n  Flawless, lookin' clean\n  Porsche truck lookin' mean\n  I'm lawless, I like to floss in Europeans\n  Gruff stay on his deen\n  Stay chasin' the green\n  This that heat rock, the way the beat knock\n  Came a long way from movin' sheet rock\n  Not a CL Smooth and I feel like Pete Rock\n  The way I be paranoid, I keep the heat cocked\n  When you the plug, you don't even get to eat\n  Phone clickin' every minute\n  I rarely miss a beat my weed plug is Asian\n  I keep the thugs blazin'\n  Before I let the waves spin\n  I rock braids then\n  I don't give a fuck about niggas\n  That ain't on my side\n  I don't care who they kill\n  Long as none of my niggas die\n  Violate the gang\n  Somebody catchin' the head shot\n  We ain't rattin'\n  We gon' beat whatever cases the Feds got\n  Fuck mainstream, in the streets I'm relevant\n  This for my niggas that been locked\n  Up since Bush was the president\n  You gon' die broke and\n  Kids growin' up poor, nigga\n  Your baby mom is regrettin'\n  Fuckin' you raw, nigga\n  Bring your crew, they could visit the fish\n  'Cause them niggas'll get wet for shorts\n  Like a midget just pissed\n  You shoot like you got permission to miss\n  You wouldn't clap nickels by a fountain\n  With yo' bitch in a wish\n  I don't ballroom brawl\n  Fuck a kick and a fist\n  When I wrestled the bulldog\n  Threw my wrist in a twist when we was kids\n  They let us pick the shit up for kicks\n  But my nigga just caught a trip\n  For a stick and a brick, nigga\n  I'm quittin' quarantine on all tracks\n  Fall back\n  I'm so all that, I got a mask on my ballsack\n  (Rrah) even my microphone coughin'\n  Fiend snitchin'\n  Too vicious while kissin' more bad\n  Bitches than Richard Dawson (Rah)\n  Family Feud, calamity due\n  Your dog, I stand with any man\n  I hand 'em a can of dog food (Rrah)\n  So call me black Santa Claus\n  I put mistletoe on my drawers so\n  Fake rappers can suck me off\n  Yo soy capitán, yo no soy marinero\n  Meaning if we was a 10, I'd be the 1\n  You'd be the 0\n  And no, I'm not the GOAT, motherfucker\n  I'm the hero\n  Shapiro, dinero, I'm the Alpha\n  You're the Romero\n  I blaze trails like I'm Melo in Portland\n  I ain't rich out this bitch\n  I'm no Palmer Cortlandt\n  No mansion, no yachts, and no fleet of cars\n  But I'm a beast on this mic\n  You couldn't find sweeter bars\n  King Truth play in the city\n  I'm the recruiter game time\n  Steppin' away and you'll meet a shooter\n  Real streets send 'em a message, no computer\n  Hit the block\n  I leave niggas missin' like it's Bermuda\n  Air where them niggas was\n  Fightin' and pitchin' crack\n  Any day I could send you a coroner\n  Get you packed\n  Never worry about the nigga who talkin'\n  He in an act asshole, get your whole house\n  Flipped when I react\n  If the sun don't shine forever\n  I got 30 in this bitch with a beam\n  I'll 9 whoever\n  Get your mask shot off your face, nigga\n  Social distancin'\n  But I still will spank niggas\n  Ayo, Slay, they ain't like that\n  The chopper causin' massacres\n  Shake the whip\n  Had these niggas crawlin' over passengers\n  That citizen app get to goin' off\n  Latex gloves for the drill\n  Niggas butter soft\n  45th, I'm a shooter\n  Niggas know I shoot shit\n  Pull up, we gon' make it hot\n  We ain't on that cool shit\n  Greasy, nuisance, easy, ruthless\n  Hit 'em 'cause I'm wild then I'm out\n  Deuces\n  Come to 9G, I keep a pair, that's pitty pack\n  I don't rock designers, but I'll line ya\n  That's a Fendi fact\n  I'm from where if niggas see\n  Your chain, they like, \"Give me that\"\n  But if you say my name\n  You might get it back, mob Ties\n  Reach is on, FEMA bones, speakers on\n  Nia Long\n  Lears flown, Aaliyah's home, features on\n  King of throne\n  Trippie Redd exterior, seat is on hematom'\n  Rims gleamin' chrome\n  Whip leanin' on adrenochrome\n  Peons tryna reach me, I'm science\n  My seeds travel for eons\n  Through Keedron Bryant\n  Me and 'Preem and Obama just\n  Sippin' Pino in yarmulkes\n  Lickin' cream off of models\n  With Miss Marina Abramovich\n  I don't sympathize for wack\n  Hoes and goofy guys\n  Seen niggas die over rap woes and pussy pride\n  'Cause Snoopy cried or 'cause Pookie lied\n  Y'all watch the mag blow and I'll watch\n  Both your eyes do the Toosie Slide\n"},{"id":34820292,"name":"Rolling 50 Deep","trackName":"Rolling 50 Deep","artistName":"DJ Kay Slay","albumName":"Homage","duration":190.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Thousand dollar shades on\nMy lil' homies boost 'em\nSongs bump in Houston like Trae\nTha Truth produced 'em silverback nigga\nI suggest you get used to him (Uh, huh)\nOG gangsta\n(Yeah) nine with the beamin' (Woo)\nBody in the water shit\nI thought that was streamin'\nCouple Yonkers niggas\nWe brought our whole team in (Y-O)\nD-Block homicide, look 'em in they faces\n(D-BLOCK) look how many shooters with us\nCount how many cases\nHardest in the world\n(Ghost) you ain't gotta ask (Uh, uh)\nWay before the quarantine, I was in a mask\nAsked niggas for six feet\nPop 'em in the ass you rap it like a G\nWasn't poppin' on the ave\nHoppin' out the DBS, gеttin' to the bag\nIf you gettin' in my way then\nI'm gеttin' to the mag (You know)\nTrue story (Yeah) it's too gory (Yeah)\nAnalyze the plug and the things\nHe could do for me, ghost\nLet's go\nAnytime I talk, you know the truth spoke\n(You know the truth spoke)\nAny rapper that ever tried me\nGot they booth smoked (Ha ha ha)\nY'all niggas play these bitches too close\nI'm calling plays\nHe ain't shootin' with that\nSeven like he Kukoč (Brrr)\nChange a bitch life when she\nLayin' with a hustler\nHad the same attitude when I\nWas playin' with a onion (Uh, huh)\nYour girl ask for cash\nYou might hand her a hunnid (What's that)\nThat's not enough to get a\nBra outta Banana Republic (Broke nigga)\nSay, big nuts and a bigger heart\nYou a scrub in these streets\nI play a bigger part\nBetter believe that you don't wanna\nSee a nigga start\n'Cause you'll be laid up with doctors\nLooking at a nigga chart\nYeah, they got me back snapping necks again\nSo you better call your family\nAnd your next of kin\n'Cause when we go to war, nigga\nIt's like a Mexican\nI cut your ass up like carpaccio, nigga\nExtra thin\nYo, I play with cold stoves so\nHot it'll break the Pyrex\nYellow and black Wu Nikes go\nWith the Pittsburgh Pirates\nFrozen medallions, they come from Mesopotamia\nThe Sheikhs carry me in the\nStreets out in Arabia\nTuna fish cans of black hash\nOpen caskets filled with rifles\nAnd Das EFX' mask\nRed moccasins, Emerald City is my metropolis\nI dust rappers\nI don't give a fuck what the topic is\nYou can never win, you're not us\nSave your best niggas\nMe, I'm just invincible plus\nI get tough digit's\nUsed to smoke water and dust, hands clutched\nNigga 2-0-19 Range look like a bus, nigga\nMionetto, the Chef is on ill levels\nBe the custom ill bezel, we get down\nAll the hills meddle\nReal rebels that run through the real ghettos\nGet money and chill, dollar\nBill rap gangsters, those my real fellows\nRambo rap, renegade rebel\n40 cal ammo when they clap to spray devil\nBandana up if you double\nWon't play your borough\nCan't avoid George Floyd 'til\nThe case is settled baseless devils\nEmpty out and replace the metal\nFace the treble, when it's bass\nWe raise the levels\nLove it, get it and think nothing of it\nMake amends then make it public\nWe ain't to fuck with\nRollin' 50 deep\nBloodhound hound dogs with sturdy teeth\nThe apex predator\nWolves huntin' a herd of sheep\nRevolutionary philosopher with\nSuperb mystique\nCurriculum of a college professor with\nThe urge to teach\nOverrated, ungrateful parasite\nUndeservin' leech\nShove the barrel right in your mouth\nYou don't deserve to speak\nThe Ku Klux Klan killer\nBury him in the Earth beneath\nDrown him in gasoline\nLight the fire and burn they sheets\nYeah, I'm a survivor, it's not a mystery\n(Nah) even when you makin' the shot\nIt's still a miss to me (Yeah)\nI'm CT fletcher, mixed with a little Mr t\n(Uh, huh) you on The Shade Room just hoping\nThat you don't miss the tea (Haha)\nBeam to your chest\nI swear that I won't miss your T\nScream to the refs, \"He flagrant\nHow could you miss the T?\"\nThe fifth degree, I could flip your Vee\nI call my stick Moses\nI split your waves in half\nLike he split the sea\nNiggas don't want smoke, trust me\nIt's all talk\nMention one of my niggas again\nAnd you'll taste salt\nBlood in your mouth, nigga\nDick in your spouse, nigga\nJust give me a reason to\nBring them things back out, nigga\nIt ain't 'bout a check, pussy nigga\nDon't check for me\nFor disrespect, send a bullet respectfully\nI put my niggas on\nYou know that we next to be\nRunnin' this rap shit, it's WHMG\nI wish a nigga would say hood in\nThe presence of a nigga that\nJust don't give a fuck, you better level up\n(Flash homie) put your bezel up\n(Ay) ain't nothin change\nIt's forever (Ante up)\nI come with the medal up (Aw shit)\nRight in VIP is where we'll settle up\nI need everything including the\nMöet in the cup brooklyn, New York\n(Legend) , pledging allegiance\nClowns that get out of bounds\nAnd don't follow procedures\nAyo, you fucking with the overbite boss\nI'll pull up on your block wavin' a torch\nLeave a corpse on your porch\nIt's killas in the room\nI smell Erykah Badu's incense when\nY'all niggas in the room\n('Cause y'all pussy)\nI will squeeze and clap (C'mon)\nBut I'll never discuss cheese with rats\n(Nigga) i'm the pallbearer that'll throw\nYou in the ground\nWith that blocka blocka b-blocka\nB-blocka blocka blaow!\nFrom The Dirt be the commission\nWe ain't askin' for permission to hit 'em\nWhile his children be with 'em, bag drops\nSlide up and twist 'em\nThirsty for clout on your laptop\nThat's how you get finished\nHomie was cappin'\nKnocked him out of his fitted\nPick up the product and zip it (Zip)\nYou dyin' to be famous\nI couldn't imagine it\nApplying only torture\nThese niggas softer than fabric\nFar from average, 357 on me\nKnockin' Cam' Horse & Carriage shit\nIf I was you, that'd be embarrassin'\nTold Slay if this rap don't pop\nFuck selling drops\nI be back up on that old shit\nMasks and gloves on like\nI'm tryna dodge COVID\nI'm making coats fresh like aerobics\nOver the stove with\nThe burner on like I'm Emeril Lagasse\nStreets sweep you off your feet\nLike Drake on Degrassi\nYou gon' need a colostomy bag\nIf you tryna stop mine came with drums on it\nBigger than Loretta Devine\nWith a shot better than Steph and\nLeBron, I'm on my grind, bitch\nPass the baton\nI'm rap crack packed in a bong\nOne immaculate blast and you gone\nMy craft is beyond mastered\nIt's blasphemy having me on a song\nFor less than three 16's like\nA chapter from John\nRappers get laid off when I'm working\nMan, I ain't even have to concentrate to\nGet this 8 off like a German\nThat's light work\nI can rap last or rhyme first\nPick ya poison, I'm poised\nThey picking my verse\nSee the dirtiest of the dirtiest\nThe godfather\nStill'll jack you with no gun\nChoke you with your car charger\nSlay hit me up on the gram and said, \"Damn\nYou don't even need a buzz to\nBe gettin' love from your fans\"\nI said it's a difference between\nA fan and a follower\nThese niggas went from dick-lickin'\nTo being straight swallowers\nFollow or see a trend and then follow\nThat's a no hand\nNiggas wanna be like Chicago\nScared to death to go there (Yeah! Yeah)\nUh, throw the V's up for victory\nGOAT when they mention me, dope era history\nGettin' violated, annihilated\nI only do Sanaa Lathan\nFire Satan, God body, I got the choir hatin'\nRich and rude, plus my lifestyle is ravishing\nLaying wood on your wife\nI swear it's a cabinet\nOakland inhabitant, lifestyle extravagant\nMe going broke? Yeah right\nCouldn't imagine it\nFuck the system, it's a premise\nThese visions mentally different\nNever be victims, equity grippin'\nMelodies is meant to be different\nRemember the rhythm\nMarches when we melanin pigment\nEmbedded and gifted, we said it and did it\nRaise a power fist\n24/7 just look where I was at\nThey fueled by cowardice and called us\nPowerless and proud of it sucka shit\nWe gon' keep the Hubble like a mothership\nNah, we went from raised up kings and\nQueens just like our mothers did\nAllow me to do what I do best\nThen while you rest on my chest\nThere's a huge S\nNiggas that's talkin' that real shit\nOnly a few left, but not a huge threat\nSend shots at a Flint nigga\nWhat they send back, you gon' need two vests\nSo, please stay off my dick 'less\nYou got a fat ass and two huge breasts\nI been to hell and back and I\nFucked the devil in a blue dress\nGive me the motive, they know I'ma show up\nAnd feelin' me make 'em like you less\nIn this industry, all I see is pussies and\nDickheads like group sex\nThey waitin' for what I'ma do next\nAnd I'm lookin' around like who's next\nConnor\nHit 'em in the body like a millimeter\nWith about a minute for the rhythm\nA lobotomy\nIf anybody pull it when they wanna\nGet up in the middle of the way I do\nI'm never givin' an apology\nOughta be up in the talk\nI'm one of the better veterans\nWho murderin' and get up on the beat\nAnd be the one up in the middle\nOf the battle and I'm ready\nFor the war, I be the one and when I do it\nThey retreat\nWith the feelin' of a breeze of a Great Lake\nAutomatic and it's cinematic when\nI'm in the attic\nAnd they get erratic on the bass\nPut 'em in a little bit of panic\nAnd I make 'em wanna vacate\nKay Slay just made a way\nTo make it not stay safe when I lay eight\nIt's like I lay tape\nLike I'm Biggie, the late great, Twista\nFuck all the lyrical shit, bitch\nI'm a game spitter\nAnd I tried to told you that I got bars\n(Like what?) just like a phone charge\nComin' up out of the slum\nThe gut of the beast (The gut of the beast)\nI don't need no iron, I'm already creased\n(Already creased) immune to violence\n(Violence) ambulance and police (Police)\nGotta keep your silence\n(Silence) out here in the streets (Streets)\nRappers don't rap like me\nI don't rap like them (Rap like them)\nI'll pull your card just like a SIM\n(Like a SIM, biatch)\nYou know where I be, drinkin' in the lobby\nSmokin' on gelati\nSlidin' off with a thottie (Huh?)\nStomach on a gate\nMade a quick stop to Haji's (Yo)\nWalk in any club in New York with no ID\nShorty think 'cause her ass fat\nShe could line me i'm like a dead end\nYou can't get nothing by me (Stop it)\nI'm Nino Man, I keep shooters behind me\nThey knew how I was comin'\nAlready when 'Kiss signed me\nY'all Johnny come lately, I was on time\nOn the road like white lines\nReadin' all signs\nCleanin' off knives after tallyin'\nWhat was taken\nYour man got pinched, my man with him\nHe said he breakin'\nSaid he came out the gate\nStrong but now he waverin'\nSaid the G's fadin' him 'cause\nHe wouldn't put paint in\nMy name strongest spot you could put a leg in\nFact rap shooter\nYou know that I stay wavin'\nIt's Mysonne! Welcome to the revolution\nThis is gon' be televised\nCoward dies a thousand deaths\nReal nigga never dies\nI had to memorize the rules of the game\nI learned from the fools and\nGot jewels from the lames\nRefuse to entertain you sucker niggas on IG\nI'm outside every day, nigga, find me\nSee, you can try me, just don't 6-9 me\nRealest nigga alive is how you define me\nBlatant with my right hand\nSneaky my left hook\nAll my peers know my gear stuck on Westbrook\nYou claim to be the greatest\nAll over the sport but all I see is a nigga\nShakin' while holdin' the torch\nProceed, go 'head, try to take the lead\nAnd then tell us how it feels not to succeed\nUp to par and up to speed\nYou already know my body\nHow many more bars do you niggas need?\nGet shot in broad day fuckin' 'round in LA\nHome of the gang bang where\nWe let our nuts hang\nPeel your motherfuckin' cap\nI put the city on the map\nCrackhouse in '92 is what new\nNiggas call a trap\nI'ma keep it gangsta 'til they put\nMe in the fuckin' dirt\nCali keeps it grimy cuz\nTexacos gettin' work\n'Berg nigga, hair trigger, West Coast\nHell most khakis, chucks, low-riding\nWhite tee's and homicides\nThis lightning, son of a tee\nPrevalent Hebrew\nKryptonian, only trip on niggas I see through\nBorn sinner, habitually illuminative behavior\nI don't fuck with your savior if\nHe ain't lookin' like we do nigga vegan\nBut I still enjoy beefin' with pigs\nNot a Corleone\nA Luca Brasi could sleep with the fish\nSend 'em somethin' sleazy so\nI could teach you\nThat I could reach you and how we\nDo that hog meat real greasy\nUh, Slay told me to get the weaponry\nSo I wrote the verse before\nHe got finished textin' me\nA spliff, and in about 60 seconds\nI've written destiny i'm glowin', nigga\nLamont Coleman been sittin' next to me\nYeah, rapper remarkably, savage authority\nClappin' the Smith &, Daryl Dixon\nLook like I'm practicin' archery\nThe walking dead\nTell every rapper that spar with me\nCooler than Billy Dee with\nThe cigar in Mahogany\nFuck your favorite rapper, bitch\nI'm not a actor\nIt's games and laughter towards\nPains and pastors\nThe aftermath for the matter with\nFo'-five will make 'em scatter\nIt's like a Now or Later\nYou prefer the latter\nWhat's understood is overstood\nYou could be a bitch and a\nSnitch and still rep the hood\nYour bars are no good, we don't trust you\nNot you, not one biff, you government\nIt's Gordo!\nSpeak up, you don't understand still?\nThe heat up, I bet you understand steel\nGet you beat up or put you in a standstill\nIt's rush hour and traffic's\nAt a standstill\nSlay know I'm mad I missed his album (Facts)\nBut I don't play, like math\nThe kid's a problem (Uh, huh)\nDifferent kind of caliber of problem (What?)\nAnd my whips look like algebra problems\nLoaded Lux\nI got a page for each chapter, Slay\nYou on your job\nUnc', you raisin' up the bar\n(What?) It's beats and rappers\nWe gon' have to build, niggas got talents\nBut they soundin' off balance, man\nYou ain't even kill\nYoungin in the sports, it's not a loss\nBut all that Tommy got Hilfiger\nHe wasn't cut from this cloth\nBut who's the judge the way\nThey threw him the book?\nIt seem kinda fishy the way\nYou got off the hook\nI'm jaded\nDrunk in the whip playin' Jadakiss\nNah, I ain't worried 'bout\nWill and Jada biz you should get with me\nMayweather with victories\nIce Tiffany like crystally, tight symmetry\nFlights to Italy and Congo\nHit 'em with the calm flow\nMamis follow everywhere the Don goes\nPlush condos, ice in the wing like Rondo's\nMillion dollar convos, we on those\nA lotta clowns in the game\nThey mama should've aborted 'em\nSnitch and come home\nY'all people still supportin' them\nI'm Makaveli trained\nTestament of his tutelage\nReally had to be outside\nYou couldn't Google it\nIf Noble Outlaw known to spit the truest shit\nOver twenty years in this game\nStill doin' it\nThugger peace, Kadafi, Fatal Hussein\nShout outs to Kay Slay and EDI Mean\nWe on a mission\nThieves in the tab but we get 'em\nNo more playin' the victim\nWe gon' spray 'em and split 'em\nKay Slay say \"Hi!\"t 'em, so we did 'em\nIt's done black and brown in this bitch\nAnd we all for one better be cautious, son\n'cause the time is now\nLook, no more talk, where the riders now?\nWe ain't even tryna hide it\nWe ain't hard to find\nAnd I ain't got shit for a\nBitch but a hard time\nYeah, picture me sacrificin' integrity\n(Yeah) picture me gassin' the gaslighters\nI prophetically foreshadow the shallow\nEnded the pool you spoke from\nIf you believe in idols\nWhat happens when you invoke one?\nUtter insanity\nThe first rapper to take me out of\nContext can expect a fuckin' calamity\nThis is much deeper than\nMusic or surface vanity\nA soundtrack to bounce back\nYou understandin' me?\nThe hustler, I supply smokers\nBut eventually I'm tryna get a\nB like my guy Hova\nI got this chick 'bout to drive over\nShe bisexual\nBut take the whole pole 'cause she bipolar\nLook, she got some amazing puss'\nSo I'm shootin' my shot\nBut not what Tory did to Megan foot\nThey shootin', brrat, I made you look\nSo they can see how afraid you look, facts\nThey gon' miss me when I'm all gone\nTell 'em bury me with legends\nAnd the drug lords\nNext to ST, put me with Dimissio\nAt my wake, all my bitches in a different row\nGotta stop rappin' 'bout dyin'\nLet me switch it up\nKeys to the Lamb' truck\nThey gon' see me act up\nLove a bitch who got lip\nFillers and her ass done\nCap, what? Nigga, who? We about that action\nCedar or don, milk crate, G's in the pond\nHold the dice, NYPD alarm, need to be calm\nNothin' but gunshots, kids need to be home\nBlock so hot, the fire hydrant need to be on\n(Harlem)\nThe fiends buy it, have 'em for days wired\nServin' out the Hyatt\nWantin' to be Dave Hyatt\nCountin' at the table\nThe weed and the cigs fired\nI'm out of town\nTrunk full of ki's and the plate expired\nHave me checkin' your chest, no backgammon\nThe MAC blammin'\nThis rag hammer get too fly\nYou get crash landed\nI slap fam for wackness\nSlackin' their trash fam\nTrain y'all bitches\nNo smashin' in the mass transit (Pause)\nB-b-b-boss, look at the scars on this hymn\nCouldn't hear 'em with bars\nI'm the concrete jungle gym\nShinin' through this wildlife, Jungle Jim\nNamed my Glock 19-COVID\nGot y'all up on punishment\nCertain suckas used to be homies\nKnow you put 'em in chalk\nWhen they see you try to walk the\nOther direction and play it off\nBut I be clean up out that rental with\nThat flame comin' cleaner than a AR\nThem suckas know I kill, rush\nI'ma spray y'all buck buck, blow blow\nThought I was a lame, I brought the pain\nWhat ya think now? Know that I'm a king\nWhat you should've did was bow\nPapoose, let loose\nPut them bitches in the ground\nAin't no arguments, yo\nYou know I spit the hardest\nAs far as this rap thing, toured continents\nBeen a monster since I stepped on the scene\n'Fore this rap game in the\nZone slingin' to fiends\nChrome thing in my jeans, diamonds dancin'\nFlawless, lookin' clean\nPorsche truck lookin' mean\nI'm lawless, I like to floss in Europeans\nGruff stay on his deen\nStay chasin' the green\nThis that heat rock, the way the beat knock\nCame a long way from movin' sheet rock\nNot a CL Smooth and I feel like Pete Rock\nThe way I be paranoid, I keep the heat cocked\nWhen you the plug, you don't even get to eat\nPhone clickin' every minute\nI rarely miss a beat my weed plug is Asian\nI keep the thugs blazin'\nBefore I let the waves spin\nI rock braids then\nI don't give a fuck about niggas\nThat ain't on my side\nI don't care who they kill\nLong as none of my niggas die\nViolate the gang\nSomebody catchin' the head shot\nWe ain't rattin'\nWe gon' beat whatever cases the Feds got\nFuck mainstream, in the streets I'm relevant\nThis for my niggas that been locked\nUp since Bush was the president\nYou gon' die broke and\nKids growin' up poor, nigga\nYour baby mom is regrettin'\nFuckin' you raw, nigga\nBring your crew, they could visit the fish\n'Cause them niggas'll get wet for shorts\nLike a midget just pissed\nYou shoot like you got permission to miss\nYou wouldn't clap nickels by a fountain\nWith yo' bitch in a wish\nI don't ballroom brawl\nFuck a kick and a fist\nWhen I wrestled the bulldog\nThrew my wrist in a twist when we was kids\nThey let us pick the shit up for kicks\nBut my nigga just caught a trip\nFor a stick and a brick, nigga\nI'm quittin' quarantine on all tracks\nFall back\nI'm so all that, I got a mask on my ballsack\n(Rrah) even my microphone coughin'\nFiend snitchin'\nToo vicious while kissin' more bad\nBitches than Richard Dawson (Rah)\nFamily Feud, calamity due\nYour dog, I stand with any man\nI hand 'em a can of dog food (Rrah)\nSo call me black Santa Claus\nI put mistletoe on my drawers so\nFake rappers can suck me off\nYo soy capitán, yo no soy marinero\nMeaning if we was a 10, I'd be the 1\nYou'd be the 0\nAnd no, I'm not the GOAT, motherfucker\nI'm the hero\nShapiro, dinero, I'm the Alpha\nYou're the Romero\nI blaze trails like I'm Melo in Portland\nI ain't rich out this bitch\nI'm no Palmer Cortlandt\nNo mansion, no yachts, and no fleet of cars\nBut I'm a beast on this mic\nYou couldn't find sweeter bars\nKing Truth play in the city\nI'm the recruiter game time\nSteppin' away and you'll meet a shooter\nReal streets send 'em a message, no computer\nHit the block\nI leave niggas missin' like it's Bermuda\nAir where them niggas was\nFightin' and pitchin' crack\nAny day I could send you a coroner\nGet you packed\nNever worry about the nigga who talkin'\nHe in an act asshole, get your whole house\nFlipped when I react\nIf the sun don't shine forever\nI got 30 in this bitch with a beam\nI'll 9 whoever\nGet your mask shot off your face, nigga\nSocial distancin'\nBut I still will spank niggas\nAyo, Slay, they ain't like that\nThe chopper causin' massacres\nShake the whip\nHad these niggas crawlin' over passengers\nThat citizen app get to goin' off\nLatex gloves for the drill\nNiggas butter soft\n45th, I'm a shooter\nNiggas know I shoot shit\nPull up, we gon' make it hot\nWe ain't on that cool shit\nGreasy, nuisance, easy, ruthless\nHit 'em 'cause I'm wild then I'm out\nDeuces\nCome to 9G, I keep a pair, that's pitty pack\nI don't rock designers, but I'll line ya\nThat's a Fendi fact\nI'm from where if niggas see\nYour chain, they like, \"Give me that\"\nBut if you say my name\nYou might get it back, mob Ties\nReach is on, FEMA bones, speakers on\nNia Long\nLears flown, Aaliyah's home, features on\nKing of throne\nTrippie Redd exterior, seat is on hematom'\nRims gleamin' chrome\nWhip leanin' on adrenochrome\nPeons tryna reach me, I'm science\nMy seeds travel for eons\nThrough Keedron Bryant\nMe and 'Preem and Obama just\nSippin' Pino in yarmulkes\nLickin' cream off of models\nWith Miss Marina Abramovich\nI don't sympathize for wack\nHoes and goofy guys\nSeen niggas die over rap woes and pussy pride\n'Cause Snoopy cried or 'cause Pookie lied\nY'all watch the mag blow and I'll watch\nBoth your eyes do the Toosie Slide","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Rolling 50 Deep\n  artist: DJ Kay Slay\n  album: Homage\n  duration_ms: 190000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Thousand dollar shades on\n  My lil' homies boost 'em\n  Songs bump in Houston like Trae\n  Tha Truth produced 'em silverback nigga\n  I suggest you get used to him (Uh, huh)\n  OG gangsta\n  (Yeah) nine with the beamin' (Woo)\n  Body in the water shit\n  I thought that was streamin'\n  Couple Yonkers niggas\n  We brought our whole team in (Y-O)\n  D-Block homicide, look 'em in they faces\n  (D-BLOCK) look how many shooters with us\n  Count how many cases\n  Hardest in the world\n  (Ghost) you ain't gotta ask (Uh, uh)\n  Way before the quarantine, I was in a mask\n  Asked niggas for six feet\n  Pop 'em in the ass you rap it like a G\n  Wasn't poppin' on the ave\n  Hoppin' out the DBS, gеttin' to the bag\n  If you gettin' in my way then\n  I'm gеttin' to the mag (You know)\n  True story (Yeah) it's too gory (Yeah)\n  Analyze the plug and the things\n  He could do for me, ghost\n  Let's go\n  Anytime I talk, you know the truth spoke\n  (You know the truth spoke)\n  Any rapper that ever tried me\n  Got they booth smoked (Ha ha ha)\n  Y'all niggas play these bitches too close\n  I'm calling plays\n  He ain't shootin' with that\n  Seven like he Kukoč (Brrr)\n  Change a bitch life when she\n  Layin' with a hustler\n  Had the same attitude when I\n  Was playin' with a onion (Uh, huh)\n  Your girl ask for cash\n  You might hand her a hunnid (What's that)\n  That's not enough to get a\n  Bra outta Banana Republic (Broke nigga)\n  Say, big nuts and a bigger heart\n  You a scrub in these streets\n  I play a bigger part\n  Better believe that you don't wanna\n  See a nigga start\n  'Cause you'll be laid up with doctors\n  Looking at a nigga chart\n  Yeah, they got me back snapping necks again\n  So you better call your family\n  And your next of kin\n  'Cause when we go to war, nigga\n  It's like a Mexican\n  I cut your ass up like carpaccio, nigga\n  Extra thin\n  Yo, I play with cold stoves so\n  Hot it'll break the Pyrex\n  Yellow and black Wu Nikes go\n  With the Pittsburgh Pirates\n  Frozen medallions, they come from Mesopotamia\n  The Sheikhs carry me in the\n  Streets out in Arabia\n  Tuna fish cans of black hash\n  Open caskets filled with rifles\n  And Das EFX' mask\n  Red moccasins, Emerald City is my metropolis\n  I dust rappers\n  I don't give a fuck what the topic is\n  You can never win, you're not us\n  Save your best niggas\n  Me, I'm just invincible plus\n  I get tough digit's\n  Used to smoke water and dust, hands clutched\n  Nigga 2-0-19 Range look like a bus, nigga\n  Mionetto, the Chef is on ill levels\n  Be the custom ill bezel, we get down\n  All the hills meddle\n  Real rebels that run through the real ghettos\n  Get money and chill, dollar\n  Bill rap gangsters, those my real fellows\n  Rambo rap, renegade rebel\n  40 cal ammo when they clap to spray devil\n  Bandana up if you double\n  Won't play your borough\n  Can't avoid George Floyd 'til\n  The case is settled baseless devils\n  Empty out and replace the metal\n  Face the treble, when it's bass\n  We raise the levels\n  Love it, get it and think nothing of it\n  Make amends then make it public\n  We ain't to fuck with\n  Rollin' 50 deep\n  Bloodhound hound dogs with sturdy teeth\n  The apex predator\n  Wolves huntin' a herd of sheep\n  Revolutionary philosopher with\n  Superb mystique\n  Curriculum of a college professor with\n  The urge to teach\n  Overrated, ungrateful parasite\n  Undeservin' leech\n  Shove the barrel right in your mouth\n  You don't deserve to speak\n  The Ku Klux Klan killer\n  Bury him in the Earth beneath\n  Drown him in gasoline\n  Light the fire and burn they sheets\n  Yeah, I'm a survivor, it's not a mystery\n  (Nah) even when you makin' the shot\n  It's still a miss to me (Yeah)\n  I'm CT fletcher, mixed with a little Mr t\n  (Uh, huh) you on The Shade Room just hoping\n  That you don't miss the tea (Haha)\n  Beam to your chest\n  I swear that I won't miss your T\n  Scream to the refs, \"He flagrant\n  How could you miss the T?\"\n  The fifth degree, I could flip your Vee\n  I call my stick Moses\n  I split your waves in half\n  Like he split the sea\n  Niggas don't want smoke, trust me\n  It's all talk\n  Mention one of my niggas again\n  And you'll taste salt\n  Blood in your mouth, nigga\n  Dick in your spouse, nigga\n  Just give me a reason to\n  Bring them things back out, nigga\n  It ain't 'bout a check, pussy nigga\n  Don't check for me\n  For disrespect, send a bullet respectfully\n  I put my niggas on\n  You know that we next to be\n  Runnin' this rap shit, it's WHMG\n  I wish a nigga would say hood in\n  The presence of a nigga that\n  Just don't give a fuck, you better level up\n  (Flash homie) put your bezel up\n  (Ay) ain't nothin change\n  It's forever (Ante up)\n  I come with the medal up (Aw shit)\n  Right in VIP is where we'll settle up\n  I need everything including the\n  Möet in the cup brooklyn, New York\n  (Legend) , pledging allegiance\n  Clowns that get out of bounds\n  And don't follow procedures\n  Ayo, you fucking with the overbite boss\n  I'll pull up on your block wavin' a torch\n  Leave a corpse on your porch\n  It's killas in the room\n  I smell Erykah Badu's incense when\n  Y'all niggas in the room\n  ('Cause y'all pussy)\n  I will squeeze and clap (C'mon)\n  But I'll never discuss cheese with rats\n  (Nigga) i'm the pallbearer that'll throw\n  You in the ground\n  With that blocka blocka b-blocka\n  B-blocka blocka blaow!\n  From The Dirt be the commission\n  We ain't askin' for permission to hit 'em\n  While his children be with 'em, bag drops\n  Slide up and twist 'em\n  Thirsty for clout on your laptop\n  That's how you get finished\n  Homie was cappin'\n  Knocked him out of his fitted\n  Pick up the product and zip it (Zip)\n  You dyin' to be famous\n  I couldn't imagine it\n  Applying only torture\n  These niggas softer than fabric\n  Far from average, 357 on me\n  Knockin' Cam' Horse & Carriage shit\n  If I was you, that'd be embarrassin'\n  Told Slay if this rap don't pop\n  Fuck selling drops\n  I be back up on that old shit\n  Masks and gloves on like\n  I'm tryna dodge COVID\n  I'm making coats fresh like aerobics\n  Over the stove with\n  The burner on like I'm Emeril Lagasse\n  Streets sweep you off your feet\n  Like Drake on Degrassi\n  You gon' need a colostomy bag\n  If you tryna stop mine came with drums on it\n  Bigger than Loretta Devine\n  With a shot better than Steph and\n  LeBron, I'm on my grind, bitch\n  Pass the baton\n  I'm rap crack packed in a bong\n  One immaculate blast and you gone\n  My craft is beyond mastered\n  It's blasphemy having me on a song\n  For less than three 16's like\n  A chapter from John\n  Rappers get laid off when I'm working\n  Man, I ain't even have to concentrate to\n  Get this 8 off like a German\n  That's light work\n  I can rap last or rhyme first\n  Pick ya poison, I'm poised\n  They picking my verse\n  See the dirtiest of the dirtiest\n  The godfather\n  Still'll jack you with no gun\n  Choke you with your car charger\n  Slay hit me up on the gram and said, \"Damn\n  You don't even need a buzz to\n  Be gettin' love from your fans\"\n  I said it's a difference between\n  A fan and a follower\n  These niggas went from dick-lickin'\n  To being straight swallowers\n  Follow or see a trend and then follow\n  That's a no hand\n  Niggas wanna be like Chicago\n  Scared to death to go there (Yeah! Yeah)\n  Uh, throw the V's up for victory\n  GOAT when they mention me, dope era history\n  Gettin' violated, annihilated\n  I only do Sanaa Lathan\n  Fire Satan, God body, I got the choir hatin'\n  Rich and rude, plus my lifestyle is ravishing\n  Laying wood on your wife\n  I swear it's a cabinet\n  Oakland inhabitant, lifestyle extravagant\n  Me going broke? Yeah right\n  Couldn't imagine it\n  Fuck the system, it's a premise\n  These visions mentally different\n  Never be victims, equity grippin'\n  Melodies is meant to be different\n  Remember the rhythm\n  Marches when we melanin pigment\n  Embedded and gifted, we said it and did it\n  Raise a power fist\n  24/7 just look where I was at\n  They fueled by cowardice and called us\n  Powerless and proud of it sucka shit\n  We gon' keep the Hubble like a mothership\n  Nah, we went from raised up kings and\n  Queens just like our mothers did\n  Allow me to do what I do best\n  Then while you rest on my chest\n  There's a huge S\n  Niggas that's talkin' that real shit\n  Only a few left, but not a huge threat\n  Send shots at a Flint nigga\n  What they send back, you gon' need two vests\n  So, please stay off my dick 'less\n  You got a fat ass and two huge breasts\n  I been to hell and back and I\n  Fucked the devil in a blue dress\n  Give me the motive, they know I'ma show up\n  And feelin' me make 'em like you less\n  In this industry, all I see is pussies and\n  Dickheads like group sex\n  They waitin' for what I'ma do next\n  And I'm lookin' around like who's next\n  Connor\n  Hit 'em in the body like a millimeter\n  With about a minute for the rhythm\n  A lobotomy\n  If anybody pull it when they wanna\n  Get up in the middle of the way I do\n  I'm never givin' an apology\n  Oughta be up in the talk\n  I'm one of the better veterans\n  Who murderin' and get up on the beat\n  And be the one up in the middle\n  Of the battle and I'm ready\n  For the war, I be the one and when I do it\n  They retreat\n  With the feelin' of a breeze of a Great Lake\n  Automatic and it's cinematic when\n  I'm in the attic\n  And they get erratic on the bass\n  Put 'em in a little bit of panic\n  And I make 'em wanna vacate\n  Kay Slay just made a way\n  To make it not stay safe when I lay eight\n  It's like I lay tape\n  Like I'm Biggie, the late great, Twista\n  Fuck all the lyrical shit, bitch\n  I'm a game spitter\n  And I tried to told you that I got bars\n  (Like what?) just like a phone charge\n  Comin' up out of the slum\n  The gut of the beast (The gut of the beast)\n  I don't need no iron, I'm already creased\n  (Already creased) immune to violence\n  (Violence) ambulance and police (Police)\n  Gotta keep your silence\n  (Silence) out here in the streets (Streets)\n  Rappers don't rap like me\n  I don't rap like them (Rap like them)\n  I'll pull your card just like a SIM\n  (Like a SIM, biatch)\n  You know where I be, drinkin' in the lobby\n  Smokin' on gelati\n  Slidin' off with a thottie (Huh?)\n  Stomach on a gate\n  Made a quick stop to Haji's (Yo)\n  Walk in any club in New York with no ID\n  Shorty think 'cause her ass fat\n  She could line me i'm like a dead end\n  You can't get nothing by me (Stop it)\n  I'm Nino Man, I keep shooters behind me\n  They knew how I was comin'\n  Already when 'Kiss signed me\n  Y'all Johnny come lately, I was on time\n  On the road like white lines\n  Readin' all signs\n  Cleanin' off knives after tallyin'\n  What was taken\n  Your man got pinched, my man with him\n  He said he breakin'\n  Said he came out the gate\n  Strong but now he waverin'\n  Said the G's fadin' him 'cause\n  He wouldn't put paint in\n  My name strongest spot you could put a leg in\n  Fact rap shooter\n  You know that I stay wavin'\n  It's Mysonne! Welcome to the revolution\n  This is gon' be televised\n  Coward dies a thousand deaths\n  Real nigga never dies\n  I had to memorize the rules of the game\n  I learned from the fools and\n  Got jewels from the lames\n  Refuse to entertain you sucker niggas on IG\n  I'm outside every day, nigga, find me\n  See, you can try me, just don't 6-9 me\n  Realest nigga alive is how you define me\n  Blatant with my right hand\n  Sneaky my left hook\n  All my peers know my gear stuck on Westbrook\n  You claim to be the greatest\n  All over the sport but all I see is a nigga\n  Shakin' while holdin' the torch\n  Proceed, go 'head, try to take the lead\n  And then tell us how it feels not to succeed\n  Up to par and up to speed\n  You already know my body\n  How many more bars do you niggas need?\n  Get shot in broad day fuckin' 'round in LA\n  Home of the gang bang where\n  We let our nuts hang\n  Peel your motherfuckin' cap\n  I put the city on the map\n  Crackhouse in '92 is what new\n  Niggas call a trap\n  I'ma keep it gangsta 'til they put\n  Me in the fuckin' dirt\n  Cali keeps it grimy cuz\n  Texacos gettin' work\n  'Berg nigga, hair trigger, West Coast\n  Hell most khakis, chucks, low-riding\n  White tee's and homicides\n  This lightning, son of a tee\n  Prevalent Hebrew\n  Kryptonian, only trip on niggas I see through\n  Born sinner, habitually illuminative behavior\n  I don't fuck with your savior if\n  He ain't lookin' like we do nigga vegan\n  But I still enjoy beefin' with pigs\n  Not a Corleone\n  A Luca Brasi could sleep with the fish\n  Send 'em somethin' sleazy so\n  I could teach you\n  That I could reach you and how we\n  Do that hog meat real greasy\n  Uh, Slay told me to get the weaponry\n  So I wrote the verse before\n  He got finished textin' me\n  A spliff, and in about 60 seconds\n  I've written destiny i'm glowin', nigga\n  Lamont Coleman been sittin' next to me\n  Yeah, rapper remarkably, savage authority\n  Clappin' the Smith &, Daryl Dixon\n  Look like I'm practicin' archery\n  The walking dead\n  Tell every rapper that spar with me\n  Cooler than Billy Dee with\n  The cigar in Mahogany\n  Fuck your favorite rapper, bitch\n  I'm not a actor\n  It's games and laughter towards\n  Pains and pastors\n  The aftermath for the matter with\n  Fo'-five will make 'em scatter\n  It's like a Now or Later\n  You prefer the latter\n  What's understood is overstood\n  You could be a bitch and a\n  Snitch and still rep the hood\n  Your bars are no good, we don't trust you\n  Not you, not one biff, you government\n  It's Gordo!\n  Speak up, you don't understand still?\n  The heat up, I bet you understand steel\n  Get you beat up or put you in a standstill\n  It's rush hour and traffic's\n  At a standstill\n  Slay know I'm mad I missed his album (Facts)\n  But I don't play, like math\n  The kid's a problem (Uh, huh)\n  Different kind of caliber of problem (What?)\n  And my whips look like algebra problems\n  Loaded Lux\n  I got a page for each chapter, Slay\n  You on your job\n  Unc', you raisin' up the bar\n  (What?) It's beats and rappers\n  We gon' have to build, niggas got talents\n  But they soundin' off balance, man\n  You ain't even kill\n  Youngin in the sports, it's not a loss\n  But all that Tommy got Hilfiger\n  He wasn't cut from this cloth\n  But who's the judge the way\n  They threw him the book?\n  It seem kinda fishy the way\n  You got off the hook\n  I'm jaded\n  Drunk in the whip playin' Jadakiss\n  Nah, I ain't worried 'bout\n  Will and Jada biz you should get with me\n  Mayweather with victories\n  Ice Tiffany like crystally, tight symmetry\n  Flights to Italy and Congo\n  Hit 'em with the calm flow\n  Mamis follow everywhere the Don goes\n  Plush condos, ice in the wing like Rondo's\n  Million dollar convos, we on those\n  A lotta clowns in the game\n  They mama should've aborted 'em\n  Snitch and come home\n  Y'all people still supportin' them\n  I'm Makaveli trained\n  Testament of his tutelage\n  Really had to be outside\n  You couldn't Google it\n  If Noble Outlaw known to spit the truest shit\n  Over twenty years in this game\n  Still doin' it\n  Thugger peace, Kadafi, Fatal Hussein\n  Shout outs to Kay Slay and EDI Mean\n  We on a mission\n  Thieves in the tab but we get 'em\n  No more playin' the victim\n  We gon' spray 'em and split 'em\n  Kay Slay say \"Hi!\"t 'em, so we did 'em\n  It's done black and brown in this bitch\n  And we all for one better be cautious, son\n  'cause the time is now\n  Look, no more talk, where the riders now?\n  We ain't even tryna hide it\n  We ain't hard to find\n  And I ain't got shit for a\n  Bitch but a hard time\n  Yeah, picture me sacrificin' integrity\n  (Yeah) picture me gassin' the gaslighters\n  I prophetically foreshadow the shallow\n  Ended the pool you spoke from\n  If you believe in idols\n  What happens when you invoke one?\n  Utter insanity\n  The first rapper to take me out of\n  Context can expect a fuckin' calamity\n  This is much deeper than\n  Music or surface vanity\n  A soundtrack to bounce back\n  You understandin' me?\n  The hustler, I supply smokers\n  But eventually I'm tryna get a\n  B like my guy Hova\n  I got this chick 'bout to drive over\n  She bisexual\n  But take the whole pole 'cause she bipolar\n  Look, she got some amazing puss'\n  So I'm shootin' my shot\n  But not what Tory did to Megan foot\n  They shootin', brrat, I made you look\n  So they can see how afraid you look, facts\n  They gon' miss me when I'm all gone\n  Tell 'em bury me with legends\n  And the drug lords\n  Next to ST, put me with Dimissio\n  At my wake, all my bitches in a different row\n  Gotta stop rappin' 'bout dyin'\n  Let me switch it up\n  Keys to the Lamb' truck\n  They gon' see me act up\n  Love a bitch who got lip\n  Fillers and her ass done\n  Cap, what? Nigga, who? We about that action\n  Cedar or don, milk crate, G's in the pond\n  Hold the dice, NYPD alarm, need to be calm\n  Nothin' but gunshots, kids need to be home\n  Block so hot, the fire hydrant need to be on\n  (Harlem)\n  The fiends buy it, have 'em for days wired\n  Servin' out the Hyatt\n  Wantin' to be Dave Hyatt\n  Countin' at the table\n  The weed and the cigs fired\n  I'm out of town\n  Trunk full of ki's and the plate expired\n  Have me checkin' your chest, no backgammon\n  The MAC blammin'\n  This rag hammer get too fly\n  You get crash landed\n  I slap fam for wackness\n  Slackin' their trash fam\n  Train y'all bitches\n  No smashin' in the mass transit (Pause)\n  B-b-b-boss, look at the scars on this hymn\n  Couldn't hear 'em with bars\n  I'm the concrete jungle gym\n  Shinin' through this wildlife, Jungle Jim\n  Named my Glock 19-COVID\n  Got y'all up on punishment\n  Certain suckas used to be homies\n  Know you put 'em in chalk\n  When they see you try to walk the\n  Other direction and play it off\n  But I be clean up out that rental with\n  That flame comin' cleaner than a AR\n  Them suckas know I kill, rush\n  I'ma spray y'all buck buck, blow blow\n  Thought I was a lame, I brought the pain\n  What ya think now? Know that I'm a king\n  What you should've did was bow\n  Papoose, let loose\n  Put them bitches in the ground\n  Ain't no arguments, yo\n  You know I spit the hardest\n  As far as this rap thing, toured continents\n  Been a monster since I stepped on the scene\n  'Fore this rap game in the\n  Zone slingin' to fiends\n  Chrome thing in my jeans, diamonds dancin'\n  Flawless, lookin' clean\n  Porsche truck lookin' mean\n  I'm lawless, I like to floss in Europeans\n  Gruff stay on his deen\n  Stay chasin' the green\n  This that heat rock, the way the beat knock\n  Came a long way from movin' sheet rock\n  Not a CL Smooth and I feel like Pete Rock\n  The way I be paranoid, I keep the heat cocked\n  When you the plug, you don't even get to eat\n  Phone clickin' every minute\n  I rarely miss a beat my weed plug is Asian\n  I keep the thugs blazin'\n  Before I let the waves spin\n  I rock braids then\n  I don't give a fuck about niggas\n  That ain't on my side\n  I don't care who they kill\n  Long as none of my niggas die\n  Violate the gang\n  Somebody catchin' the head shot\n  We ain't rattin'\n  We gon' beat whatever cases the Feds got\n  Fuck mainstream, in the streets I'm relevant\n  This for my niggas that been locked\n  Up since Bush was the president\n  You gon' die broke and\n  Kids growin' up poor, nigga\n  Your baby mom is regrettin'\n  Fuckin' you raw, nigga\n  Bring your crew, they could visit the fish\n  'Cause them niggas'll get wet for shorts\n  Like a midget just pissed\n  You shoot like you got permission to miss\n  You wouldn't clap nickels by a fountain\n  With yo' bitch in a wish\n  I don't ballroom brawl\n  Fuck a kick and a fist\n  When I wrestled the bulldog\n  Threw my wrist in a twist when we was kids\n  They let us pick the shit up for kicks\n  But my nigga just caught a trip\n  For a stick and a brick, nigga\n  I'm quittin' quarantine on all tracks\n  Fall back\n  I'm so all that, I got a mask on my ballsack\n  (Rrah) even my microphone coughin'\n  Fiend snitchin'\n  Too vicious while kissin' more bad\n  Bitches than Richard Dawson (Rah)\n  Family Feud, calamity due\n  Your dog, I stand with any man\n  I hand 'em a can of dog food (Rrah)\n  So call me black Santa Claus\n  I put mistletoe on my drawers so\n  Fake rappers can suck me off\n  Yo soy capitán, yo no soy marinero\n  Meaning if we was a 10, I'd be the 1\n  You'd be the 0\n  And no, I'm not the GOAT, motherfucker\n  I'm the hero\n  Shapiro, dinero, I'm the Alpha\n  You're the Romero\n  I blaze trails like I'm Melo in Portland\n  I ain't rich out this bitch\n  I'm no Palmer Cortlandt\n  No mansion, no yachts, and no fleet of cars\n  But I'm a beast on this mic\n  You couldn't find sweeter bars\n  King Truth play in the city\n  I'm the recruiter game time\n  Steppin' away and you'll meet a shooter\n  Real streets send 'em a message, no computer\n  Hit the block\n  I leave niggas missin' like it's Bermuda\n  Air where them niggas was\n  Fightin' and pitchin' crack\n  Any day I could send you a coroner\n  Get you packed\n  Never worry about the nigga who talkin'\n  He in an act asshole, get your whole house\n  Flipped when I react\n  If the sun don't shine forever\n  I got 30 in this bitch with a beam\n  I'll 9 whoever\n  Get your mask shot off your face, nigga\n  Social distancin'\n  But I still will spank niggas\n  Ayo, Slay, they ain't like that\n  The chopper causin' massacres\n  Shake the whip\n  Had these niggas crawlin' over passengers\n  That citizen app get to goin' off\n  Latex gloves for the drill\n  Niggas butter soft\n  45th, I'm a shooter\n  Niggas know I shoot shit\n  Pull up, we gon' make it hot\n  We ain't on that cool shit\n  Greasy, nuisance, easy, ruthless\n  Hit 'em 'cause I'm wild then I'm out\n  Deuces\n  Come to 9G, I keep a pair, that's pitty pack\n  I don't rock designers, but I'll line ya\n  That's a Fendi fact\n  I'm from where if niggas see\n  Your chain, they like, \"Give me that\"\n  But if you say my name\n  You might get it back, mob Ties\n  Reach is on, FEMA bones, speakers on\n  Nia Long\n  Lears flown, Aaliyah's home, features on\n  King of throne\n  Trippie Redd exterior, seat is on hematom'\n  Rims gleamin' chrome\n  Whip leanin' on adrenochrome\n  Peons tryna reach me, I'm science\n  My seeds travel for eons\n  Through Keedron Bryant\n  Me and 'Preem and Obama just\n  Sippin' Pino in yarmulkes\n  Lickin' cream off of models\n  With Miss Marina Abramovich\n  I don't sympathize for wack\n  Hoes and goofy guys\n  Seen niggas die over rap woes and pussy pride\n  'Cause Snoopy cried or 'cause Pookie lied\n  Y'all watch the mag blow and I'll watch\n  Both your eyes do the Toosie Slide\n"}]