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Uh |
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Uh huh |
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You know what this is |
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I'ma let 'em run around one more time |
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I drop sumpin' on y'all |
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It's like... it's like |
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What's it like? |
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My microphones and glock nines |
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Black? I'm dipped in that |
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The beats, my mash, jam you for the platinum you have |
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Run it, the illest, watch me become it |
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I'm here, and took it bowling, like straight to the wig |
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Speak truth like kids, tell you what you don't know |
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Kobe? Yeah, he's real with the flow |
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Kick in the do' wavin' the flow-flow |
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All you heard was stop, can't take the hits no more |
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Ha, didn't know I had your block on SWAT? |
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I'm CIA, y'all nuttin' but beat cops |
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I rock like my ma's mean, name is cocaine |
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Place you on my A-fiend list and pay you 'cane |
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Think you can handle? Not get stripped when you rock? |
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Think again, you find you lost your mind and judgement |
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My confidence, springs from watching y'all fall |
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Aw, forced to hustle, rap in charge |
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I'ma hop in your brain, tell you whatchu thinkin' |
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Yes, I am speakin', but I ain't writin' |
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So cold, I put the ice in nicest |
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You too broke to pay attention |
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My style is priceless |
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[Kobe (Nas)] |
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If you say murder that means I'm a (Thug Poet) |
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If I say my mind kills that means I'm a (Thug Poet) |
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If I say that I'm a flock that means I'm a (Thug Poet) |
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And when I lay it down, it makes me a (Thug Poet) |
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[Broady Boy] |
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Thank the dudes for the gangs and tanks of booze |
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Shanks and twos, it's the gangstas, Langston Hughes |
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My poems' about broken homes and Jesus peaces |
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Dope is the Popes in Rome |
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Poetical field, thug overtone, it's like what, yo? |
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Bring it home, we both go gone |
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Pre-cord thought flow in the sober zone |
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My life style, chromosomes frost, hope to clone |
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The crack lust, black dust, and the gat bust |
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The claps, the lackluster, memoirs of the black hustler |
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Condos, Beemers, bomb hoes, coke bags, toe tags, John Does |
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Fiends skits them into the plane of day, as plain as day |
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It's hard to reach, to smell God anyway |
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Money, think backdrop payin' gray? |
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Man, rubber-gripped on that rainy day |
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Peep the way I came to play |
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One aim at the game, reign and stay |
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Every stain is straight from objective, insane |
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'Ey just don't know, I'm two ticks from blowing a hole through music |
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But I'm more than pimp-whoring him for the street wise |
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You met the ren |
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Cuz I open 'neath in the weed, hydrogen |
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Jam my eyes to skin, guide some of our wisest men |
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Until the skies of sin |
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I pray for the day we see you rise again |
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Uh |
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[Nas (Broady)] |
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Thug Poet (Street analyst is this, the) |
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Thug Poet (Hustlers bang out to) |
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Thug Poet (Flows for your block, Hip-Hop) |
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Thug Poet |
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Thug Poet |
| [50 Cent] |
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Aiyyo, everybody know 50 ain't know how to act |
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I run up on cats with gats and aluminum bats |
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Y'all got fat while we starved, it's my turn |
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Shit, I done felt how a slug burned, I still won't learn |
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Niggas in the 'hood a-tell ya "50 crazy" |
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I had your moms screamin' "They done shot my baby" |
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Son, I yap your shine, I clap the nine, I slap you |
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I'm that one of them niggas you wanna fuck with |
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I spit the shit that make ya keep listenin' |
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Keep my wrists glistenin' |
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I left niggas alone and they still think I'm dissin' 'em |
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I'm on some new shit, S-Type baby blue shit |
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Niggas talk behind my back but don't do shit |
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I ain't looking for love, duke, I'm looking for respect |
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I leave you with options, like die or hit the deck |
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I'm a thug poet, you know what I came for, the dough |
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Clap-clap, y'all niggas get the fuck on the floor, floor |
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[Nas: Echoes to fade] |
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Thug Poet |
