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(Superb) |
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Fuck y'all niggas talkin about? |
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My flow, right? |
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Everytime I did this shit, you niggas got hype yo |
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Superb's the next nigga, respect for those before me |
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In these last days, I'm bringin rap glory |
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In the streets they hear it, some will remember the lyrics |
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In my demise, some will remember me in spirit |
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And I ain't tryin to die like 'Pac and BIG |
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And lose my talent to a cultured thug life |
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I'm a man, seein mindstate of balance |
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takes years, fam', like fuck y'all plans |
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See, we feel like stars, shine like stars |
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Fuck stars, fuck y'all, we examples |
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Samples of the hood, thugs from the hood |
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Young bloods in the hood like, they love the hood |
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They love the young bitches, nickel bags and guns |
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In the benches, we see it all off the benches |
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I learned how to sew seein niggas stitches |
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And the pain, don't even ask who 'bout the pain |
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They killed main, I won't maintain |
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By the bus stop, two blocks from the dust spots |
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Somebody busted shots, they said Sam got got |
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Damn, he wildin in the back cab rap |
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That eat swine, fucked his arms and hold nines |
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That's Far Rock for you, my block for you |
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Y'all bitches niggas only live in jail cuz ock know you |
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When I come home, watch how shots blow you |
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Through the upholstery, even through your mom's groceries |
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Little Sam died three months later |
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He got set up in the elevator, his cape was regulated |
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His name faded, he has a son by this bitch he dated |
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Shorty waited for two dead case kid |
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He'd get them niggas kids if he couldn't get them |
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Then one day out of the blue, BAM! |
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He heard shit like last names and cars rarin |
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The Larger Than Life niggas was about to leave here |
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<sampled singing> |
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(Masta Killa) |
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My people stressed out, we seventy dead and starvin |
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Son couldn't walk through my yard past curfew |
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I rose from an era of terror where it was legal |
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to tote guns, get red and bust a nigga head |
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And if pussyhole for dead, left pussyhole for dead |
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What the fuck was his song? |
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Never heard of this till niggas started snitchin |
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I'm still stitchin motherfuckers up |
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I deal with high sciences, supreme refinements |
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Till any wicked germ is destoryed and burned |
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We the Gods without question |
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Prove what I'm manifestin, all show ways and actions |
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Hopeful that, lick your cannon |
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I'm ill when I shoot to peal like Ed O'Bannon |
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In my head is a thought, perm cocked, off safety |
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Shots fired, follow blood trails to the stairwell |
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Faced down, he lay sound, rounds to his crown |
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Shorty hip flock was midtown, big fly holdin him down |
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With the dead-arm, siren sounds |
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Bullets chip brick, precincts followed by the ambulance |
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Respond to the bomb threat |
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I picked up his MC tray through the masters |
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I'm sharper than my carpentry blade |
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The culture carven into mountains |
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The faces of my eight classmates |
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That stomp through the streets of states for Protect Ya Neck tapes |
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Wu-Tang T-shirts and bandanas |
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We snatch mics and snuff niggas who jack the rappin |
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<sampled singing> |
