Diamond Cutters

[Intro: Roc Marciano] Uh, pimps in the motherfuckin' buildin' Marc, baby, you already know what the fuck it is, nigga We set the precedent out here, you can't You gotta be kiddin' me, nigga Knock it off, niggas following Uh, follow me though [Verse 1: Roc Marciano] Yo, rubber burners in them Germans, we some earners Earnest, we don't give a fuck, we some virgins Versace shirt, Medusa head with the serpents, disturbing The folks in the church was nervous Spikes on the Louboutins like a sea urchin You don't see my me networkin' He's not a people person I was speakin' on me but in third person If violence hurts how we eatin', it defeats the purpose Uh, whole cameras in the thirty clip Pray your soul get to enter that pearly fence Deals with the devil, Snoop with the Shirley Temps Murder was the case they gave a pimp (murder was the case that they gave me) Eventually niggas learned in the long run, your friends turn enemies Little things is important Got popped, went to court once Since then, been on the run Niggas thought I was finished, I'm just warming it up Uh Once again, it's on Pistols get drawn with no pencil point Shot fish, shit talk the oriental joint Thought it was civil 'til we kicked you in your groin This shit is noise, I'm on steroids forever poised Floyd Mayweather with the cheddar boy This a different era Ain't no missin' glass slippers given to Cinderellas Bitches running my errands (Marc) Fuck what you yellin' Niggas jealous and they feel us If we ain't gelling, accept it and don't be desperate Niggas extra (extra) Fuck, we next up Rosebudd did its numbers We doin' chest bumps [Chorus: Roc Marciano] Condo shoppin' in Cabo, the condom broke That don't mean that's my child though Condo shoppin' in Cabo, the condom broke That don't mean that's my child though [Verse 2: Black Thought] Ay yo Every sports coat got to be bespoke Keep a non-believer chokin' on cohiba smoke Keep a wide receiver open like convenience stores Am I a Henry Ford or the Lord? I'm either-or These rappers is more weak, Sweeter than Rita Ora Y'all whole fuck boy squad this shit ain't even for Its for esteemed honorees, not the nominees This shit is for the proper G's, not the minor leagues Smellin' like a pot of greens is some kind of creed I believe the jacket and slacks is by Walid I achieved greatness, switchin' between faces If ain't a Cartier on your sleeve, it seems naked Dream chasing delirium, the criterion is from Senegal The homie Nigerian, look With the twelve gauge long beneath the black burka The track murker give a fuck like a sex worker It's a sad state of affairs, it's a tear-jerker The duffel bag circa '95 Gurkha Slaughter without borders, war in close quarters Joke is on whoever spoke, for 'em it's post mortem They prayed that the story they told could hold water Better make it wait, sure to disobey direct orders We faceless and move throughout forgotten spaces The rooftops, alleys, vacant lots, and basements