I need it from the top. This is history, baby. Commissioner Steve Stout. Lenny. Godson, what up? D-Block, what up? Bravehearts, what up? Yeah. Yeah. Yo, yo, ain't nothing but trouble, God, when I kick in the door with D-Block, Bravehearts, and the double R. Don't make me let the machine off. This is methadone music that you can lean off. Made you look. The remix with me up on it. I copped your ***, now I break weed up on it. And everything is real, I see. Like my niggas that been home, but they only got a jail ID. I help the game, it ain't help me. I'm top five, dead or alive, and that's just off one LP. And I still buzz. They feel cuz, cuz they know the flow's ill, just like Will was. I'm just trying to make sure that my son's wealthy. Out of shape, but I make sure that my gun's healthy. I'm a ape, you can't stand, kiss. Coming through the hood in the Aston Vanquish, the color of dandruff. They said we jumped him, I just let the gun snuff him. Copied a turbo, soon as they uncuff him. This goes out to all of your mans. Why I put you in a verse when I could put you in a car and a van? D-Block. They shootin', aww made you look. You a slave to a page in my rhyme book. Gettin' big money, playboy, your time's up. With them gangsters, where them dimes at? They shootin', aww made you look. You a slave to a page in my rhyme book. Gettin' big money, playboy, your time's up. Where them gangsters at? Where them dimes at? I'm from the school of hard knocks, sneak peeks, and low blows. Where X's mark spots and kitchen's mark O's. Where love's gon' get ya and hate is gon' snitch ya. And finger squeeze triggers like boa constrictors. It's the Mr. Looter, Jada, and Nas. And our bullets give you a deep tissue massage. So hear the song and dance while I make these ends. You never stood half a chance like Siamese twins. They shootin', look in the barrel. Then he made the front page of the Miami Herald a shy tribune. Nozzles with solid doom. We in that A-town journal as violent goons. You should print my information, quote my rhyme, and keep me in between these New York and L.A. times. I'm just a victim of society as Chris the Menace with most *** out on the streets than evicted tenants. Go! They shootin', ah, made you look. You a slave to a page in my rhyme book. Gettin' big money, playboy, your time's up. Where them gangsters at? Where them dimes at? Jungle, Wiz, Nashawn. We got them scared, look. We got them scared, they runnin'. Yo, I grasp the ratchet, the blicky, the biscuit, the burner. The heat, the toaster, the twister, you meetin' your owner. The banger, the hammer, the flamers, I aim at the cannons of Kenya. Manhandle you, you be famous, I cancel you. And cut, that's the end of your movie. Pretendin' you actin' like you and your men to come shoot me. My tennis shoes Gucci, old school pea soup green. Gene Lee suit on Viva Clico champagne. Friday the 13th, my CD drop. I rhyme to more bass than EZ Rock. I'm Jason, call a P.D., watch them Bravehearts. Jungle, and Wiz, and Nashawn. Ill wear Ross the Lake, never veiling his face on TV or pictures, and we be them niggas. Sorry that I made you wait long, glad them fake's gone. We shootin', squeezin' them triggers with Luda beside me. Me and Kiss get loonies, and we set the style speed. Tell him, hold his head, God's son got him. We made y'all look from San Quentin to Rikers Island to Green. Sing, sing, plus Mary.