My God is dead.
faggot niggaz leakin' When I cock back the iron, niggaz is dyin', marchin' to Zion 'Cause the pound-cake, roars like a lion Word son, niggaz be collapsin', 'cause my weapons is
layin' dead 'cause he came for me Yo it?s a body in the trunk son So what?s it gonna be A nigga layin' dead 'cause he came for me Yo son I shot him
she'll be dead soon drug her to the muthafuckin bedroom handcuffed her then I turned the music down Knock Knock Knock then I heard a pound! who is it
like that) Aiyo, this is all for my metro card one dollar cab niggaz Niggaz who walk here and all the ladies Who stood on line in the rain with the bouncers Who
Noise Frapertate On The End Of The Gun My Boys Givn Paper Just As Quick As It Komes And if your stadin in the way a mama missin her son I Remember Back
, look 'em dead in the eye, then waste 'em And the dark shall emerge from the fiery depths of hell And swallow the shallow, the hallow who dwell In the shadows of all who
every night And 'Let there be light' was understood, when a mic-stand Descended from up-and-above into the hood and if my face Is worth a thousand words
the weekend, already miss New York and it's odd 'Cause I'm the first to say it got too many hustlers who rob I never hang out, when we do we bust the
for fruit that labor does not bring. This is all for you my dear cynical son, the man who lit the match that burnt the whole world down. Farewell, to that basement noise
appeals And dismissals got you thundering, can't help but wondering The club scene, a hundred books of acid and who's on exstacy Who sniffs shit and who
Million dollas for a hit man Hit man, hit man Gotta represent, noise, noise, noise What if your re-up was in this bag? In your car, and we popped the
what it is to suffer want, Yet it is they who are directly responsible. In a world where there are people who can't afford a crust of bread, These arrogant
you mean these things are worth money now drifting off this is the who you calling homeless mighty fearful twisted and tonight I got front row tickets to the dead
'bout to cross The finish line, the finish line Word is bond, bond is life You shall be willing to give your life before your words shall fail All those who
Like father like son Not flesh nor fish nor bone A red rag hangs from an open mouth Alive at both ends but a little dead in the middle A tumbling and
Bring it to these niggas son Yeah, it's that war shit It's that war shit [Incomprehensible] And you know what Dun It makes you sick to hear the Mobb
the cap S.L or G.M or G.P who gives a shit its all the shit Now listen motherfuckers G.P are in the club I have won thing to yell out loud son (STEPH&
