| In control and effect | |
| So what the heck, rock the discotheque | |
| [Ghostface Killah] | |
| Bring all the hammers and the buchanans | |
| My click ran in and after the blazin' is done, we still standin' | |
| Spot Raider Rich Gannon, I play the bench standin' | |
| Front of them snitch cameras, blow up your bitch Hannon | |
| Give her a quick chance to kiss glands | |
| In the mix, I saw the bitch sniffin', just dance | |
| Slept on a peel, then broke her wrist, and burnt her quick | |
| And stopped her wish, one of my wig pushed in | |
| Ghostface is local, slick murder shit with a new rhyme hustle | |
| Still bust you, **** you, head bust you, respect my muscle | |
| Like a mean hooker, I'm not gonna tussle, I'll cut you | |
| And that goes for any nigga who think that they better than me | |
| Punch 'em in his face, **** him up mentally | |
| Real robe and pop my throne | |
| Pop a cop if he show signs of any kinda stop my flow | |
| This is real live lyricist, never a witness | |
| See me clappin' the tools, improve my wrist | |
| The dude is, the Ruger is super steel | |
| Fall back, take a look at my face, for real | |
| My attempts to kill, sent a gate to chills | |
| When his brain hit the windshields, brake ills | |
| [Chorus: sample] | |
| Burn it, aw, burn it | |
| And you know, got to have them set it | |
| Burn it, aw, burn it | |
| What a life, not a life, ha, ha, ha, hahahaha | |
| [Trife Da God] | |
| Yo, I'm dope like syringe with dope in it | |
| And you a dummy like crack bags with soap in it | |
| See, well I'mma got a scope with it, drama don't approach with it | |
| Blow you off the coast, now your momma got a coat with it | |
| Young nigga, smokin' marijuana with the coke in it | |
| Sellin' CD's, VCR's and the remote with it | |
| Easy, duke, man I need this loot | |
| Look at my face, all hairy like some kiwi fruit | |
| Dead serious, showin' no teeth, holdin' my heat | |
| Put his eyes in the back of his head, he goin' to sleep | |
| For ****in' with a top boss, niggaz get knocked off | |
| I always drop shit for the street like a cop's horse | |
| Nigga you cock soft, scared to pop off | |
| And I spit fire, my tongue's dipped in hot sauce | |
| It'll burn you, toss and turn you | |
| Have you bleedin' internal, get popped like kernels | |
| [Chorus] |
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