Ill Figures (feat. M.O.P. & Kool G Rap)

When I write my lyrics
It's like, it's like
I want my shit to be phat
I want people to be able to understand
Yo
Anybody can rhyme
Youknowhatimsaying
But it's what you saying that
Makes a person know about you
Knowhatimsaying
You know the type of person you is
So it's like really
I'm just more of just
Being a street narrator (aiyo, what up, famo?)
Reefer lit
Love hip hop
The gangstas got me like the broccoli
Brooklyn baby cooling at a swat meet
Real niggas wanna meet me
Ladies wanna eat me
Money clean Mercedes claim
Baby
Beat me
Love getting dressed up
Sweats and techs
Ride around the hood
Good
Getting Gotti respect
Hand is golden
An OG rolling and holding
Yo
Fresh kicks
Soft leather
Pockets is swollen
Let my jam hit your tape deck
It's straight up
And made up
For every real nigga with his gun on him
Hate up
Flying through the city nights
New flights
Blue ice
Hundred thousand in a Nike bag
License
Drug shop
I'm sorry
Atari in the Ferrari
Next see the Lex A Shallah
La Tam'pa
Eating yo
All of us
Scamma gangstas
You know we honor
Tip the kangol
Cooling in the brown vengos

I have never
Giving up on a mission
That's against my honor

Duke let me warn you
My niggas crip up
Them young boys'll run up on you
Shoot your whip up
Brooklyn
Nigga
Beg for you life
And my Staten Island homeys lay
Your ass down on Glaciers of Ice
Sidewalk executives
Live the street life consecutive
We built for this
Go for your gun
My prospective is
Another day in the life
Of money and drugs
Big hammers and slugs
Can get ugly as fuck

From the chest to your man Danze
Ey
Staten Island
Said what up, yo, ey
The homey ODB said what up
Though, ey
We got the Chef on deck as if you
Didn't know
It's sharp as fuck, Wu
That's what up
Pack it up, wanna rap
Wanna rock, what up
Wanna pop, get up
Fuck around and get your block hit up
Bring your team and we'll box 'em up
Think M.O.P. is not what up

It seems I'm a bit late here
Don't worry
These men are all gonna die

See from the side where it slum at
Dum at, rum at
Cognac, combat
Contact, contrast
Crom's packing out like Beyonce back
She bang out a song like the Fonz back
Bigger things
Bring the slangs
Slicker than the sharpest pen
Nigga here, combat
Sweet dick Willie T, Rudy Ray Moore
Game
Woodgrain all in the board reigns
Before rain flooded
Like storm drains
Boss man
Bundling raw 'caine
Fours bang
Neighborhood war games
Get your weight up
You looking anarexic
Posted on the block proper with the hammer vested
Bitch came with empty hands
That's the hand she left with
Thirsty ass with the water and it sounded desperate
Break a white an hour
Based it forty grand invested
Live within the third rail
You know the man electric
Shit was like the third world
Until I handle metrics
That next shit