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Welcome back |
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We're here on Bad Boy television and I'm Trevin Jones |
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And I've been conversing with the mad rapper |
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And quite frankly, he's very mad |
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We're gonna try to find out why |
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So we'll take some questions at this point from our studio audience |
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Yes ma'am, please stand and state your name and where you're from |
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Hi, my name is Shay, and I'm from New Rochelle |
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And I just don't understand, why you so mad |
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Like what are you so mad about? |
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You wanna know why, yo first of all |
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Be askin' me no question kno' what I'm sayin' who the f**k is you? |
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You kno' what I'm sayin'? |
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You can't be askin' me no question |
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I'ma tell you why I'm mad, you kno' what I'm sayin'? |
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I'ma tell you why I'm mad, I'ma tell you why I'm mad |
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These niggaz is makin' five hundred thousand dollar videos |
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You know you sayin', they drivin' around in hot cars, |
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Yuu know you sayin', they got bitches, they got all that shit |
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You kno' what I'm sayin', I'm still livin' with my moms |
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You kno' what I'm sayin', that's my word |
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You know you saying, I'm makin' records, I ain't made no money |
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Yet I done made this is my fourth album yo, this my fourth album |
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I ain't made a dime yet |
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This nigga made one album, he makin' wild records |
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That Ready to Die shit, it was aight, it was aight |
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You know I'm sayin', that shit was aight, it was cool |
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But my shit is more John Blaze than that, I got John Blaze shit |
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And they not recognizing, they not sayin' I recognize |
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And f**k is that, who is you to be askin' me questions |
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You kno' what I'm sayin', who is you? |
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I gots to talk, I gotta tell what I feel |
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I gotta talk about my life as I see it |
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This goes out to you |
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This goes out to you, and you, and you, and you |
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This goes out to you |
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This goes out to you |
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This goes out to you, and you, and you, and you |
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Your reign on the top was short like leprechauns |
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As I crush so-called willies, thugs, and rapper-dons |
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Get in that ass, quick fast like ramadan |
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It's that rap phenomenon Don-Dadda, f**k Poppa |
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You got ta, call me, Francis M.H. White |
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In tank-light totes, tote iron |
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Was told in shootouts, stay low, and keep firin' |
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Keep extra clips for extra shit |
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Who's next to flip on that cat with that grip on rap |
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The mo shady, "Tell em", Frankie baby |
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Ain't no tellin' where I may be |
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May see me in D.C. at Howard Homecomin' |
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With my man Capone, dumbin, f**kin' somethin' |
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You should know my steelo |
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Went from ten G's for blow to thirty G's a show |
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To orgies with hoes I never seen befo' |
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So, Jesus, get off the Notorious |
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Penis, before I squeeze and bust |
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If the beef between us, we can settle it |
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With the chrome and metal shit |
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I make it hot, like a kettle get |
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You're delicate, you better get, who sent ya? |
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You still pedal shit, I got more rides than Great Adventure |
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Biggie, "How are you gonna do it?" |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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On ya mark, get set, when I spark, ya wet |
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Look how dark it get, when ya marked with death |
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Should I start your breath or should I let you die? |
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In fear you start to cry, ask why |
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Lyrically, I'm worshipped, don't front the word sick |
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You cursed it, but rehearsed it |
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I drop unexpectedly like bird shit |
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You herbs get stuck quickly for royalties and show money |
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Don't forget the publishin', I punish 'em, I'm done with them |
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Son, I'm surprised you run with them |
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I think they got cum in them 'cuz they nothin' but dicks |
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Tryin' to blow up like nitro and dynamite sticks |
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Mad I smoke hydro rock diamonds, that's sick |
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Got pay off my flow, rhyme with my own click |
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Take trips to Cairo, layin' with yo bitch |
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I know you prayin' you was rich, f**kin' prick |
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When I see ya I'ma |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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Kick in the door, wavin' the four-four |
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All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more |
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This goes out for those that choose to use |
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Disrespectful views on the King of NY |
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F**k that, why try, throw bleach in your eye |
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Now ya Braille in it, stash that light shit, or scalin' it |
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Conscience of ya nonsense in eighty-eight |
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Sold more powder than Johnson and Johnson |
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Tote steel like Bronson, vigilante |
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You wanna get on son, you need to ask me |
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Ain't no other king in this rap thing |
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They siblings, nothing but my chil'ren |
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One shot, they disappearin' |
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It's ill when MC's used to be on cruddy shit |
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Took home, Ready to Die, listened, studied shit |
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Now they on some money shit, successful out the blue |
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They light weight, fragilly, my nine milly |
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Make the white shake, that's why my money never funny |
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And you still recoupin', stupid |