| Uh huh, ba-by, ba-by, uh, it's goin' down | |
| This is that mutha****in' nigga (off the sound) | |
| Yeah, uh, bulletproof mutha****in' gooses outdoors | |
| For all the streets, all the dusts in the streets | |
| (Let me get a sip of that, let me get a sip of that) | |
| Rusty projects and all that, the radiators is bulletproof | |
| Yo, yo, come on, ah yo yo | |
| [Ghostface Killah] | |
| What up cousin, this is most high wizardry | |
| Got's to watch niggaz, so I stay on my grizzly (uh) | |
| These young boys comin' at me (yeah) | |
| Lookin' at these faggots, like yeah, you get amped off of Pepsi | |
| Damn, what kind of cards you delt | |
| Does your elevator go up? (Nope) You ain't rap too tight | |
| Right, you can tell me, G-H to O-S-T | |
| Two hundred Bees'll get you killed by coke head Skeet | |
| This is murder, you can get it, if my fam don't eat | |
| And, we slam niggaz, like we Lil' Malik | |
| We want that Powerball money, Easter bunnies, Wool-light money | |
| Hey dunny, we rock a half of mill and look bummy | |
| And bounce to the projects, pop Becks, cop Tec's | |
| Top wrecks, execs got next, what the heck | |
| I'm fed, you'se dead, that's said, no more wet | |
| The cameras is rollin', bitch, quiet on the set | |
| [Chorus: Ghostface Killah] | |
| You can never front on, jump or you get lumped on | |
| Burners in your face, don't you get nervous on me | |
| We got so many gats, and them big Mac's | |
| Somebody get the boy, I get the wildin' on black | |
| Tell 'em, we will, we will, rock you, pop you | |
| We will, we still, got you, got you | |
| [Trife Da God] | |
| Aiyo aiyo, it ain't a game (nah) | |
| This kid is serious about his change (uh-huh) | |
| Ya'll a bunch of wacko jacko's, amped off your names | |
| Call me Sugar Ray, the way I dance on you lames | |
| My right hand'll sting you and ding you, leave stamps on your brain | |
| I got, out of state of niggaz that'll kill for beers | |
| Cuz you, easy to pop like balloons filled with air | |
| I dare ya'll faggot asses, punch niggaz with glasses | |
| Back in my third grade classes, squeezin' asses | |
| My niggaz is never over, understand | |
| I'm a 2Pac fan, this is the realest shit I ever wrote | |
| Butter soft, lead the coke, matchin' my kicks | |
| So make sure, you get my sneakers when you snappin' that flick | |
| And I advise you, to carry that Bible for survival | |
| Surprise you, return like Jesus, without the costume | |
| Come on young'n, you dumbin' | |
| I've been doin' this shit since King Culling, cookin' grams in the oven | |
| [Chorus x2] |
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