[Intro: Big Twan and Hafeese]
Big Twan: Eddie Ill. What, what? It’s S-Double, [?]. Good, what’s the deal? Hafeese, Labba. What’s good? Yeah. What’s good? Uh. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yo, Hafeese, give it to ‘em, son
Hafeese: Eddie Ill & D.L. Uh. Street Smartz. Big Twan, F.T., Matt Fingaz, Labbala. Big Brooklyn. Uh. Uh. We get it on [?]. Uh, uh, uh
[Verse 1: Hafeese]
Yo, fuck your daddy. I’ll be herbing your past with murderous blast
Swerving on blacks chilling in a ‘burban-ass hat
Since knee-high, shorty from CI handle this beat I
Young chicks used to be like, “Isn’t he fly?”
From inner cold, huddling, struggling, drug-smuggling
The whole block’s buzzling, Courvoisier-shot-guzzling
At nights, I see Big Papa like stigmata
The shit’s proper, trying to live large like Big Hoffa
Glock holster fashionable
Amped and my passion to bull is either, least, splashing your crew
Or smashing your boo in a world unsanitized
When niggas glamorize hammers and Five Tens
Guys causing calamity. Flows grammatical
Tactical, lateral, over the avenues
Plus I catapult wack emcees—they all vaginal
Funny-style niggas that be flashing their ice
I got a passion to fight. I’ll grab the bull’s horn and smash in the pipe
Foul now but I’ll be laughing at night
‘Cause I’m telling you once and now I’m telling you twice
It’s raw
[Interlude 1: Big Twan]
Yeah, yeah, yo. Check it out. S-Double. Big Twan, check me out, yo. Yo, yo, check it out, y’all. Uh, yo, yo. (Bust it). It’s the
[Verse 2: Big Twan]
It’s the Twan wrecker burning down in your sector
On the gold scepter, you niggas is soft. Check shit
Now once it’s formulated, players is getting traded
Stapled and correlated, my style camphorated
I’ll rhyme raw for those who don’t know by bar four
Could tell this nigga here mastered the art of war
Check it. I’ll speak fluent, leave you laying congruent
Twan bomb with armed units. Word to my aunt Eunice
From here to Copenhagen, run through you like a Raven
That’s the two-five. You guys screaming, “Twan, you live”
All my blows is lethal, known to touch souls of people
Rap contact tap your cerebral, so check it
I’m still your idol, a thirty-thirty rifle
Fuck what you might do. I’m trife and I’ll snipe you
So what it is is what it is. Yo, Matt Fingaz
“I’m straight biz. Fuck that,” ayyo, how it is
It’s Big Twan, Labba, Matt, Hafeese
Buda, F.T. Where the fuck you at?
Big Twan, nigga. So, Matt Fingaz, bring it on, nigga
Yo
[Verse 3: Matt Fingaz]
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo
I’m home alone with a ho, so stand bull
Eat-her-out cannibal. Pussy hair flammable
Barcode her fat ass and make it sound scannable
Bust a hundred nuts in the first week—I’m animal
Got my own label, rhyme and still borrow
Fuck y’all, I’m broke, eating no Sbarro
(Yo, what up, Matt Fingaz?). Man, we’ll get ‘em tomorrow
“Fade” every fucking body like I’m little Jamal
I admit it, y’all (Y’all, y’all). I ain’t kidding (Y’all, y’all)
Man, I’m the type to have Puff and [?] start up a bidding war
Buy me an apartment apart from the one I’m in
I am. I’m the illest CEO rhyming
My shining quotables more than emotional
Don’t gotta pay for sex—I’ll get that promotional
Twenty bars of pain, the pain nonnegotiable
Usually don’t spit more than I’m supposed to do
You little bitch, I’ve been ready to dead you
Man, I’ll throw you in the red light, ready to rent you
[?]. Yeah, you, I meant too
Here’s the number to Fat Beats and tell ‘em Matt sent you
[Interlude 2: Labba and Matt Fingaz]
Matt Fingaz: Faggots. Yeah. Labba
Labba: The fucking greatest, nigga
[Verse 4: Labba]
I’m that nigga that’s up in your house
Fucking your spouse, slinging my dick in her mouth
Listen, life’s a bitch and we all going to Helly
Had my main man fucking my broad up in this telly
Life’s a bitch, yo. Fuck these hoes
Had my main bitch talking ‘bout she love me, though
Yo, bones in my funeral sing at that crossroad
With a white bitch with no pussy and crossbows
With rings and things and you what she bring?
She didn’t die from rapping. She died from guns clapping
But, yo, what’s the issue here? It’s official here
I’m skying to get five and high like our fiscal year
Intensive care, crime my prayer
Pun’s the fucking greatest. Big’s the fucking greatest
I’ll never say the pop for life. And every
Motherfucker wanna live trife
[Interlude 3: F.T.]
Yo, Fuck That, yo. Yo, uh
[Verse 5: F.T.]
I got the dick that bitches love, bastard shit that niggas hate
If you ain’t getting papes, I should spit up in your face
Fuck That’ll die for the dough. I can’t be found
‘Cause I’m on the low somewhere, getting high with my ho
You better keep a eye on your ho ‘cause she might suck
Another nigga dick if you don’t supply her with blow
Make sure that the iron is close on your hip or
Inside of your coat. Just be hiding the toast before
You be a dead rapper rhyming with ghosts. Just when
You thought you were shining the most, they got a 9 on your throat
Caught you on the way from rhymes since low
Letting you know I ain’t the motherfucker you should try to approach
I’m no comedian, so why should I joke?
Don’t make me run up in your session, put a gun up in your session
Take your girl in the mic booth and have a son up in your session
Shots—two in a head, one in a intestine
Nigga
[Outro: Matt Fingaz]
S-Double. Yeah. Eddie Ill & D.L. Cats wiling. [?] studio
