I don't give a fuck about you or your weak crew
They even heard about the crib you bought your moms out in Florida
I got the calico with the black talons loaded in the clip
C'mon nigga
What red dot? Oh shit, you got a red dot on your head too
What you gonna do when Big Poppa comes for you?
Now I'm yawnin' wipe the cold out my eye
Damn, niggaz wanna stick me for my paper
So I can reload and explode on ya rasshole
Whatcha think all the guns is for?
I'm only comin' to pass the gat
The criminals, tryin' to drop my decimals
Ah fuck it better be his motherfuckin' house
Remember them niggaz from the hill up in Brownsville?
There's gonna be a lot of slow singin', and flower bringin'
Cocked it, extra clips in my pocket
I didn't say them, they schooled me to some niggaz
Just bring your motherfuckin' ass on, come on
Yeah I'm sure motherfucker, c'mon
Nah they're my niggaz nah love wouldn't disrespect
All purpose war, got the Rottweilers by the door
It's right over here
They heard about the Rolex's and the Lexus
If my burglar alarm starts ringin'
So thank Fame for warnin' me 'cause now I'm warnin' you
I fuck around and get hardcore
When you was clockin' minor figures
In the mornin', crack of dawn an'
I'm not gunnin', nigga I bust my gun an'
Songwriters: Burt Bacharach, Hal David, Ostin Harvey, Christopher Wallace
Fuck what I'ma hit you with you motherfuckers betta duck
Touch my cheddar, feel my Beretta
Of niggaz wanna stick me like flypaper neighbor
Yeah my nigga Fame up in Prospect
With the Texas license plates outta state
Damn, niggaz wanna stick my for my cream
That you rolled dice wit, smoked the blunts and got nice wit
And they heard you got half of Virginia locked down
Now they heard you blowin' up like nitro
That you knew from back when
Fuck right here, this better be this motherfucker's house
Damn, niggaz wanna stick me for my paper
And they wanna stick the knife through your windpipe slow
Oh shit
It's that red dot on your head man
Told me he was in the gamblin' spot and heard the intricate plot
They heard about the pounds you got down in Georgetown
Betcha Biggie won't slip
I got the mac nigga tell me what you gonna do?
Damn, niggaz wanna stick me for my paper
And it ain't a dream, things ain't always what it seem
Oh shit
C-4 to ya door no beef no more nigga
Are you sure this Biggie Smalls crib man?
So I can rip through the ligaments
Damn, niggaz wanna stick me for my paper
Publishers: BEE MO EASY MUSIC, BIG POPPA MUSIC, CASA DAVID, EMI APRIL MUSIC INC., JUSTIN COMBS PUBLISHING INC, NEW HIDDEN VALLEY MUSIC
And I feed 'em gunpowder, so they can devour
See who's this pagin' me and why
It's the ones that smoke blunts witcha, see your picture
Who the fuck is this? Pagin' me at 5 46
Slow down love, please chill, drop the caper
Now they wanna grab the guns and come and getcha
The fifth corridor call the coroner
Are we gettin' close, huh?
Hold on, I hear somebody comin'
What, what's wrong?
Of his jacket he had a gun he shoulda packed it
I bring pain, bloodstains on what remains
Put the fuckers in a bad predicament, where all the foul niggaz went
The more weed smoke I puff, the more dangerous
It's my nigga Pop from the barbershop
Feel the rough, scandalous