Shirley C

[Verse 1: Sean Price]

Pursuing the papes, you give me the loot in the safe

Hand on your throat, choke til you're blue in the face

Listen, welcome to the zoo, I'm the ape

Cornelius, long foregone so be gone with the silly shit

I write "raps For dummies" but I ain't an idiot

I might slap you, money, cause Ruckus is ignorant

Listen, I got no home-training

Just crack water pushed through the holes of a strainer

Chess boxer, sket popper, death doctor

Kevorkian, a native New-Yorkian

Back when Santana used to rock bandanas

I sold coke hand-to-hand, fam, gram scrambler

Game is old, I needed a new challenge

Picked up a pen and pad and a grey new balance

Write what I feel, I don't feel like writin'

I feel like fightin', you gon' feel Mike Tyson

Random Axe, random slaps, random gats

Til my pockets Ralph Kramden fat, nigga

[Verse 2: Guilty Simpson]

I'm the shit performin'

Homie say I need a hit, so I'mma have a hit put on him

The foreman, George better grill with caution

Hole in top of your dome, you chill with dolphin

Call it dead man's float

But a diss rap to me is a suicide note

Cause ya'll chumps is soft

And I'll pistol-whip clowns 'til the gun go off

How the metal taste, featherweight?

My berettas up your level, help you elevate

Cloud surfing, angelic

Halo'd out and mad at the person, you can get it

One-third part of the unmovable force

Shoot your mouth, I'll shoot your boss, flat out

Invested in the war and we won't back out

Beef turns to peace with the big mac out

[Verse 3: Fatt Father]

I'm half cannon, half cannibal

I shut off lights like DTE, you power his clip

The only thing you devour is dick

You all lip, I took trips to places with a pound or a flip

Yeah I'm fat, but I'm proud of the shit

I like grits and long walks in the park where the cobble is big

Psyche, total opposite, as rock as eclipse

Empty your pockets, my kids want a pop and some chips

The hottest to spit, widen as my logic permits

By all means, I deposit the rent, with no rules

My gangster way deeper than Pro-Tools

Old school, catch me in the bar with a lit Kool and O'Douls

From the gutter where they tote tools

And sell crack out of two-room flats to cop some mo' shoes

So rude, inherited from my old dude

Instrumental terrorist, all win, I don't lose