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(feat. Pike, Lounge Mode & Remedy) |
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(Intro: Pike) |
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Yo, hold up, yo you know what.. |
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S.I., Staten Island, niggaz, yo, yo |
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(Pike) |
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Ain't no more talkin' money or fame |
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I'm stalkin' this game, and when I'm done |
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I'm stickin' the fork in this game and run clutchin' my gun |
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Name P.I., place S.I., N.Y.C |
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Caramel papi chulo, mammies vena que |
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Let's see if you could stop me |
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I beat it like a one man posse, I leave it wet and sloppy |
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I'm cocky, at times laid back, like to keep my fade back |
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A lot of niggaz about to get paid back (HOOOOO!) |
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Because a lot cats that don't like me |
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I guess they thought I took it lighty |
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But I rhyme and make you niggaz wanna fight me |
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I'll melt a nigga like a icey, and wipe 'em up with a towel |
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Still on the prowl, how bout? It's Staten Isle, I'm foul |
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The same time I got respect for what's real |
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Who said Staten Island niggaz ain't real? |
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You dead wrong, and took you tied up with a red thong |
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For goin' against The Struggle |
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We squeeze on the team, crash your huddle |
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(Lounge Mode) |
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Well I'm known in the hood like Castellano |
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You could see me in the fiddy, puffin' H. Armano |
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Doin' eighty on the Belt', follow signs to Verrazano |
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I keep two guns in my hood like paisano |
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My style iller than ill, I'm sick like Alzheimer's |
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A bugged cat, ready to bring back old drama |
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If it wasn't for the Slash, what could I tell mamma |
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God damn, it's bad blood between brick and the mud (HOOOOO!) |
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Brick and the thugs, shittin' on love |
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Turned over on the newest, start spittin' the snub |
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My flow is nice and I ain't worried about them hoes at night |
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For my wife and seeds, gotta get this dough shit right |
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I'm analyzin', a look how the pro's get ripe |
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And number 16, yeah, I want it showin' the lights |
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I rep the hood, gotta respect the good |
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Even the ones that left the hood, bitch! |
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(Chorus: Lounge Mode (all) w/ ad-libs) |
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Car hard suits, Timb boots and millimeters |
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(We got this, we got this) |
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Hoes and fancy cars and smokin' reefers |
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Cellies and beepers (we got this) |
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Hoodies and sneakers (we got this) |
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(Remedy) |
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Yo, it's the smoked out white boy back on the block |
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With the thirty eight snubbed nosed, tucked in his sock |
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From the H-Block, Huegonaut, part of the rock |
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Shaolin, Staten Isle, and I love hip hop |
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And when it comes to the kid, man, shit ain't easy |
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I Lounge with the Cappa D. and L.O. Beezy (I see you!) |
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You sees me? Yeah, yo, believes me |
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The Code:Red for life click, racoons need me |
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Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh, I got this |
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Rock this, radio drop this |
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The Code:Red's for real, yo, you can't stop this |
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None of ya'll muthafuckas out there could block this |
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Jumped in the whips, all dipped down low |
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Ready for a trip, to where, I don't know |
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No matter where we go, you can't stop the flow |
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The heat's on, gun's drawn, what's up, yo? |
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(Cappadonna) |
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Aiyo, my spit never tasted good, I'm sour |
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I spit for the money and I spit for power |
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Then I lean on ya'll like the Eiffel Tower |
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And to my Staten Isle niggaz, that's my heart |
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I might leave for a minute, but could never depart |
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Yeah, I'm married to this bitch and I'm still fuckin' |
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I'm in the hood where the guns is nothin' |
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And niggaz don't say shit, like E.F. Hutton |
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Paranoid like Bush, press the button |
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Don't make me grab the boomers and get disgustin' |
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Poppy Wardrobe King, Code:Red Production |
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Pillage for life niggaz, the hoes that's crushin' |
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To all my niggaz that went out bustin' |
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Grindin', the black Timbs on, wild out, hustlin' |
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(We got this, we got this) |
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(Chorus) |
