[Verse 1: Blu]
Crip
South Central rip
Script me, strip when the clip go click
Blood and water don't mix
Stove grip thick and it makes
Stove-lit whip with the grits, it's a hit
Fix clocks, got the tick itch, stop
Pop a vein if you come again, rich, dot
Glock shot, aim and it don't stop
Fiends can't keep me off the stove top
Sold rock, stow Glocks
Police can't keep me off their soapbox
So box, block a shot, pop, sock a nigga out
Pops never told me how to knock a nigga out
Pull a trigger out, shoot a finger off
Tryna block my shot, .45 Glock, pop, pop 'til it's hot
Po-po feel the heat, po-po feel the shot
Po-po hit the floor, po-po ain't make it out
For my folks gone, we gon' pour it out
'Fore the devil's gone, we gon' go about
Our own business, like I own my own business
So I'm kicking your ass out
Like you never should havе opened up your mouth
Scream and shout, timе is up, time is out
Rhyme is 'bout taking heat off, taking heads out
If you take the beat off, who be taking reds out?
Not you, not me
Not dude who got one, got two, got three
Drive-bys, bye-byes, everybody bleed
.45 on my side, may I squeeze
Pray I breathe another breath tomorrow morn'
My soul was torn, born, re-torn, remixed, and reborn
The spaceship that we on, the ageless artform forum
The basement, backyard forums, we was raw
Raw, R-A-W, trouble you, come for you
Scared we'd make fun of you, pull a gun on you
Cock that bitch
Fuck around and just pop that shit
[Verse 2: Cashus King]
Hold up, hold up
Pure pain overflowing from the cup that already run over with more rain
From the reign of tyrants
'Til your pain, leads you to Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain
When your pain got you underneath and over-tired
Over tires and roads, I expose the lanes less traveled
I walk down the path on the back of the horse with no saddle
I'm no channel for slave masses
Well, you couldn't run faster
So your master had you enchained from slave capture
By U.N. gangs and G6 thugs
Them Badu's Tear The Club Up like Three 6 does
When my 7 identifies as demonic, like Three 6 does
When my side divides the odds of 3's into 3 10th's of
What's usually the whole is not a part of those
That makes completion less than
When diversity of thought turns to scarcity of God
And the one usually contrarian turns to yes-man
"Yes, yes, y'all!"
Can I bless y'all?
When a number dude feels the Number 2 when I test y'all
When the muscle-less turns to muscle built when I flex, y'all
When I flex, set's impressed, y'all
When the pressure bust pipes, and you depressed once
Take anti-depressants and anti-psychotics
What's next, y'all?
Nice fools desire anger, angry fools desire decorum
Nice dudes desire burning ice, Ice Cube's in Higher Learning
I ain't even count the bars
Got so many wounds, I can't even count the scars
Got so many moons in so many galaxies I can't even count the stars
Need new leaders to capture ours, they all old
Need youth leaders to council ours
They all cold, and hearts frozen, from being exposed to rotten souls
And they all vote for letting war
And crooked governments that don't give a fuck about y'all!
R-A-W – raw
And when I shoot a shot, you can't block that shit
Pull out a mental gun, gun you down, son you down
Moon is rising – "son, you down!"
Another round – pop dat shiiiiit
[Verse 3: Self Jupiter]
People!
I'll put a fully automatic caliber pistol in your peephole
Get you dick beaters off me, motherfuckers
In gangbangin', ain’t no "be cool"
Ain’t no prequel, sequel, igloos
I’m the one you need to watch – sneak previews
I feed these ungrateful lethals
In the midst of all these toxic lolli-popsicle pickle pupils
To all my peeple-weeples, individuals see-through, The Beatles
Stay the fuck off my opps would equal impossible
To out-maneuver the apostle, colossal daredevil
I’ll be like Evel Knievel to your waffle
On the mic, I’m awfully unlawful
I'm a fat man’s hands versus vaudeville vs. Hamburger Hill
My rap journal contains shrapnel
Hey everybody, I'm the rappin' Suge Knight
The difference between him and me
Is the person that knocks me out won't be able to tie his shoes right
The very concept of tying a bow would be as complex as String Theory
But y'all dont hear me
But let me reiterate
If I was in the Wu-Tang Clan
Somebody would've had to find my Killer tape
Dont let the 40s and blunts
Get you loaded in trunks
And, at the end of the day
Somebody might put an end to your day
Or put you on the Metro Rail facing the wrong way
Pretty much, a pack of Juicy Fruits
Will last you about fifty months
Your entire mouth would slump
They'd be calling you Old Man
With an O.E. can for the whole weekend
[Verse 4: Myka 9]
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