Rap City - Runnin' Freestyle

[Intro - Big Tigger] Yeah Rap City Big Tig' off the top, it's going down Whoo Kid, G-Unit Album in stores, Beg For Mercy They real cool in the back, man They plotting on my G6's, man Big Tig' [Verse 1 - Big Tigger] Off the top, we put it up in the mixes I'm standing strong in them black G6's Whoo Kid provide the beat, it's off the top G-unit in the basement and we blazing hot Come on It's off the Tupac and Biggie joint, Big Tig' I'm off the top and it's always on point 4PM every afternoon on your TV Basement booth, check it live on BET I got my man Banks, shoutout to Yayo I be rocking the club with your girl, lay low With my man 50, and my man Young Buck You know, we don't give a what Who next to step up? [Verse 2 - 50 Cent] Yeah One time for your- For your mind, uh 50 Cеnt, uh The basement, what? It's going down, uh Yo, chеck it Yo I told ya'll, I'm a hustler, it's like you keep on forgetting 36 mil' in eight months, you still think I'm bullshitting? Catch me on top of Fortune's Hot 100 Head of G-Unit Enterprises, still getting blunted Went from selling crack to rap, that's two different games But they run parallel to each other, so they're quite the same Hahaha [Verse 3 - Young Buck] Young Buck G-Unit in the building And we gon' do it like this Ay, Let me spin the piece first Let me spin the piece on these people Here we go Ay the- The Desert Eagle stay stashed in the Buick Regal A 12-gauge in the back, right beside the speakers And I got beef but I'm riding through any hood Christian Dior seats, 23's, leather and wood Ain't seen the block in a minute, so you know where I'm going Make sure the fiends still coming, they know that I been touring A ghetto dude who still hang where he came from Not one of them people hollering gangster when he ain't one New York got a lot of rappers like to battle rap I tell 'em, "Nah, I ain't with it homie, grab a strap" My little brother like me, he wanna sell dope The Vice pulled him over, he swallowed it down his throat We all know the consequences when you play to win Half of these gangsters that get out the pen' go in again What would you do if I told you it was a hit on you? Strap up? Or get wrapped up? BRRAT! Back up! Yeah, yeah... [Verse 4 - 50 Cent] That was Lloyd- That was Young Buck right there Next up, we gon' ride with my man Lloyd Banks Hold up, hold up, hold up Let me get with 'em Yo, check it Yo You know that crack spot so hot, you better off playing the block Fiends can't help but be fiends, they come and cop for the cops Back in the pens again, penitentiary doors spin The game's full of heartbreaks, can I win for Christ's sakes? Ace after ace, Lady Luck just won't fuck with me That's why I got this attitude, they don't say what up to me I jook something, heart-pumping, move and I'll pop something Cop bricks, break 'em down in pieces and prop something Niggas stay in stunt mode so I stay strapped up My body language saying, ''Fuck around and get clapped up'' I sip on Coke mixed with Henny, go for broke with the semi Niggas talk behind my back, but they don't really want it with me Pussy niggas pop shit, me, I'm on that block shit That rubber band, hundred grand in that night box, bitch You know the raps bought the Benz, and the crack bought the rims Vivica, she bought the gyms, told you I'm a fuckin' pimp I was born a bad seed, I defied the odds I ain't play the hand that I was dealt, I switched the cards Still, I keep a poker face, front and I'ma catch-a-case Flip out and poke your face, you're laid out, now what a waste 50 Cent [Verse 5 - Lloyd Banks] Yeah, look Yeah You should calm your man down if you got love for him Before you see his ass flying off the roof like Nutso in Above the Rim The kid is out for the gusto and I love to win Driving the industry nuts so I'ma rub it in I'm paid so if I have a tribe, every kid is spoiled You smell that, nigga? I just shit it on you My path's cluttered, so the gun goes with me And the bullets are the size of Mutumbo's pinky And they automatic which means it'll unload quickly I hit 'em all with a drumroll .50 They make another song Get a chick pregnant? Wrong I don't even trust myself I walk into the hotel with my rubber on Then I'm gone Designers think I'm funny style 'cause I ain't selling nobody else clothes I wear my own The industry's phoney, the hell with a rap homie Gimme a cheque, a couple mil', and a jet Why? See, heavy smoking is a thing I do That's why my weed supply can fill up the pouch on a kangaroo We in the club with the daggers, the razors too I'm cool as ice water, my earrings are laser blue You should cop a new vest 'Cause if I got a tattoo for every nigga I lost, there won't be room left And I'll be damned if I spend my afternoon stressed My sex partner's 5'9'' with balloon breasts Ghostwriting is a hobby kid So if somebody's shit sound like I wrote it, I probably did And it ain't hard to tell you flopped on your last tune 'Cause your dressing room's the size of my bathroom If I'm at the dealer, I ain't browsing; I'm buying These rappers can't spend a hundred thousand; they lying You damn near sold a hundred thousand-