All my country funky brother motherfuckers
Verse One:
To my no good niggaz and my no good bitches
Sorry if I left somebody leavin out with stitches
Seems y'all too bold for ya britches
Enslaved your mind like cotton pickers for runnin wit some rotten niggaz
I get raw to the core with hardcore metaphors
Resevoir Dog style truly yours
Yes I be the slug up in your chest
Then you wonder why you can't feel the full strength of ciggarettes
My nationality is, brutality
I got the gun up under your leather nigga so walk casually
You'd be surprised how much info you can get
For a bottle of crack to find yo' punk ass and yo' kinfolks
Plus, that crew you run with is butt
I was dusted one day when I made your man choke up
Rappers comin to New Jersey and be gettin fucked up
Talkin about where they from and shit when dem sons ain't runnin shit
and go off a BIT if you do a show in da Bricks
You'd swear you was fly and how we bring so much turbulence
I keep your nervous level high nigga
You better kiss your son and daughter, tell em bye nigga
When we creep
Verse Two:
I give respect to all my woolly niggaz with the Rolex
Shinin briquettes, flashin cash and dumpin Moets
Especially when my royalty check is late, I don't hesitate
I scoop up Keith, and see who's flashin at the Palla-
-dium, hide your weed niggaz cause here I come
Lookin bummy for low profile, so loud MC's overlook me
I slip the bartender some more
Just to tell me [how much cash and Dom P you pour]
Huh, I should start robbin rappers in the industry
If we ain't clickin then I'm engineerin your injuries
Forty-eight tracks of automatics and facts
Lyrically splat-datted
