The Ghost of Christopher Wallace (clean)

The game ain't been the same since B.I.G died And Wu swarmed on New York from out that beehive Don't talk to me bout MC's got skill Don't talk to me bout whose the king of the hill Don't talk to me bout whose the best alive Or whose in your top five, cause he's not ill Real recognize real, stick to your deal Try to make a cool mill' off the sin-gle With that ringtone to appeal, in three years, you'll be nil Meal by mouth, my appeal down south Is like the Nation of Islam's when Ali knocked Liston out A universal change from what appeared as just a bout All aboard, it's the last train, soul train A bottle of Ciroc could turn a private jet to Soul Plane Put your seats back, your tray down and feet up Cause we about to heat up From Baton Rouge to Jerusalem, rap crews we bruisin' 'em Crooked mouth, flat-footed, cops man, we losing them Let me see some ID, nigga fuck a ID You been getting head from crackheads in the lobby Mr. Officer, please observe my skin tone Please observe the prophecies of hurricane and brimstone The flow's so Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoy Half oyster, half shrimp, fully dressed po-boy Lyrically I'm unfuckwitable, unforgettable, one tough miracle Competition's none, I leave 'em dumb stuck critical That some luck, pitiful, better luck next time We young, black, and restless, hung, black and reckless My name's on every guest list, I bang on every set list Went to London town, tore it down and threw my necklace Even twitter said that Jay Elec be on that next shit I should be arrested