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