| Aww, man, yeah, Lenox Ave. Boyz
|
| Aww, man, come on, yea, yeah, yo
|
| You doin' what you doin', let’s get it
|
| Starvin' and you robbin', and you catch a nigga slippin', best get 'em
|
| Hit 'em where the good Lord split him
|
| Introduce myself, go booth yourself
|
| In the far left lane, and I’m, hydro planed
|
| And I’m, slingin' my 'caine, don’t care how you feel
|
| Checkin' out the truck, check the wheels
|
| Wanna get fucked, bitch kneel, let me splash in your grill
|
| Who but me? |
| Muthafuckin' right, get it right
|
| Papi of this motherfuckin' thing, truck tight
|
| Rollin' with my niggas, we ain’t lookin' for no fights
|
| Now pop one in your head, that’s all she said
|
| It’s time to get head in my Mercedes-Benz
|
| Chipped up and I ain’t even talkin' bout my jams
|
| Clipped up, so any nigga frontin', gettin' banned
|
| Give 'em all ten in his chin, I’m all in
|
| Move back, move back, you can’t fuck with me, huh
|
| I’m from the clique called N.I.B
|
| Next up, I believe that’s me
|
| Meeno, get it right, no descrempancy
|
| Always keep a weapon, see, run it ground
|
| Worth of stones, nothin' less on me, why you stress on me
|
| Niggas mad cause I stretch my D., ya’ll dudes want my recipe?
|
| Here’s what ya’ll do, hit the lab, write an album or two
|
| Then I might let you sign my shoe, that’s just how I do
|
| Everybody sayin', boy too souped up
|
| Nah, I’m just hot, plus Bentley Coup’d up
|
| Who put, you too busy holdin' the stoupe up
|
| Ya’ll fault your broke, and not mine, stupe’a
|
| I’m like Juve', I need it in my life
|
| Got fifty birds flyin' in, later on tonight
|
| Rock and I hustle, so I get paid twice
|
| Life is a gamble boy, roll your dice
|
| Who you know spit flows, get dough like I
|
| In the L.A.B.'s, motherfucker, no lie
|
| Hit the links I’ve seen, back in late '95
|
| Had to wait for two nine, rockin' and clickin' on both sides
|
| Of course we gon' ride, ride over the competition
|
| The real has arrived, ya’ll bitch niggas is finished
|
| All I gotta do is Nextel tag my lieutenant
|
| Your whole click will get toe tagged tagged in two minutes
|
| This to them fools thinkin' they gon' catch the God slippin'
|
| I’m always on point and I’m always packin' my weapon
|
| You see me in the club, believe me, I got the tech in
|
| I slipped the DJ a guard, you slipped it in with the records
|
| Either you love it or hate it, but bet you gon' respect it
|
| Rainbow glow, when the lights hit off the necklace
|
| I’m what you can’t be, young, black, rich, and wreckless
|
| It’s the god free, and L.A.B.'s, one two, check it
|
| Remix! |
| Huh, yeah, it’s 101, what?
|
| You know what it is when you hear that, Harlem
|
| Fix ya face or smacked in it, Harlem
|
| Harlem, right here, Harlem
|
| You gon' stupid if you don’t bounce to this man
|
| You gonna only look like a hater, huh-huh
|
| Lenox Ave. Boyz, what up, it’s only right
|
| They know what it is, man, remix
|
| Move back, its no touchin' me, I’m from that place called NYC
|
| H Dub to the death, and I don’t give a fuck what party it is
|
| I’m still in the club wearin' sweats (hah)
|
| Milk ears with the money colored check
|
| Ill two step, blowin' dubs with the best
|
| Live life, most hated, with my Lenox Ave. Boyz
|
| Remix, Move Back, with Grease providing all the noise
|
| Huh, your home boy game so raw
|
| And I ain’t even gotta say my name no more
|
| Haters wanna give my name to the law
|
| But punchin' and kickin', to kick us all, they can blame you for
|
| Might catch me in the 'Lac with Snaps
|
| Or lightin' sticky green 'dro, with Wink and Meeno
|
| You from the hood and you ain’t no coward, well me neither
|
| And before you step on my sneaker, I really think you need to (move back, move
|
| Back)
|
| This your boy to the dash
|
| Same nigga, no talkin', just result to the mass
|
| I stab niggas, throw the hawk in the trash
|
| Peroxide my bullets, give the burners a bath
|
| Three fifty Z, burnin' the Ave
|
| I’m old school, I still got the fiends burnin' the glass
|
| I pull the pump off my waist, and dumb in your face
|
| I’m a little bit too hard for the radios to play
|
| I still can spit eighty miles an hour in a verse
|
| And my Coupe go eighty miles an hour in reverse
|
| I let my tool go, ya’ll niggas just studio killas
|
| Nigga, I’mma killa in the studio
|
| I got guns that’ll hollow a wall |
| Point it to your jaw, make you swallow it all
|
| Ya’ll niggas want hardcore?
|
| What the fuck you think the R, and Full Surface and D-Block is for?
|
| They ask, who’s that, that’s P-Cardi
|
| And what he in, what he in, he in a Fer-rari
|
| You know I’m strapped, you know I’m strapped, I got the heat on me
|
| And what I’m wearin', and what I’m wearin', a long Bigari
|
| Thinkin' I’m Joe Clark, nigga, try to 'lean on me'
|
| But if he is, like Biggie said, 'he gon' bleed'
|
| Niggas ain’t hard, niggas heart full of creatine
|
| But go against that, green, I go against your, brain
|
| And don’t fuck with me and the kid, I’ve been a daddy all my life
|
| No 'dro, we gon' blow that alley all day, say what
|
| Act stupid, we gon' it crackin' here tonight
|
| Greasin', Meen' on the front, with Snappy on my right
|
| If rap don’t work, nigga, we go to the kitchen
|
| Those ain’t hoes, so then you know we ain’t pimpin'
|
| I’m on, my toes, so nigga, no, I ain’t slippin'
|
| Too close, hold somethin', or now I know Cardy didn’t
|
| And if he know, what keep me little
|
| Think you know, I think it later
|
| See me, and my guns come to, just like a waiter
|
| You up north, singin' just like Anita Baker
|
| Make up your mind, then come and ready, feen to meet your maker
|
| The man that laugh last, will surely laugh harder
|
| Me have a gonna shut up and eat bars, and all of the prankster
|
| With them and I for black gangster (huh, I’m from the clique called N.I.B.)
|
| But drunk, when he hop inside, in the club gettin' tired
|
| Bitches scatter all around me, ready to excite it
|
| All these kittens got me flea bitten, eatin' out my mitten
|
| I’m comin' off top, my moves are unwritten
|
| Now slitter to the snake, in the spring time wither
|
| But strong on my own, Wu-Tang, I’m forever
|
| Women desirin', jobs is hiring
|
| Money admiring, never keep tiring
|
| Rhymin' ain’t nothin', the easiest job ever
|
| And I’m doing mine, holdin' it together
|
| While money quadruple, from playin' the cripple
|
| Drinkin' from a titty nipple, sippin' on ripple
|
| Blunt keep on flippin', from keep gettin' dippin'
|
| The mic I’m rippin', the record skippin'
|
| The pussy drippin', the wet got me slippin'
|
| The bitch I’m strippin', I’m platinum shippin' |