[Intro: Money Grip]
Uh... the pressure...
Uh, this means war, yo...
[Money Grip]
I wear a size nine in my dress shoe
Coincidently a nine's in my vest too, come and test two
Big guns, hammer cock, go
Mustang, yellow is banana top fold
Cristine pics, six mean whips
Three chicks, mother knowing, six mean tips
Rock a nigga crew, silly, boom bye bye
Black suits filling up the room, guy die
Blunt and dry tied, getting sky high
Lakers set a black code, doom side five
Blacks back 'em up, like a stocked up single
Cops packed 'em up, in his pocked up mingle
Old school, new school, need to feel though
Show, how I throw tool, niggas peel though
Aim to cook a nine up, and get an eight spazzled
Lame niggas sign up, and get your safe crashed though
Who is that man, Mr. Gat Man
Heat holding, do a nigga through his cat scan
[Real Life]
Flame thrower, who to blame, and your name don't show up
Throw up, I'm blowing the dutch, my guns bust
And you fucking with the wrong nigga, I blow a nigga
Strong arm nigga, Vietnam nigga for sure
Ain't no chore for the thing that I got, twin Glocks
Forty five calo' slugs in hot rocks
Fuck the cops, and anybody try'nna stop my team
I rhyme hard for the love of the cream
My sixteens, ain't nothing to doubt, gun butt, up in your mouth
Real Life, up in your house
Fuck an ounce, I need ten bricks, alotta chips
Niggas think that they can pull my suits and do the steeze
You'se a bitch, son, I'm try'nna get rich, now break your self
Before I take ya health, it's gonna take a lot shoves to stop me
And I ain't rocking or dealing with none of ya'll
So respect these bars, or I'mma catch you at the park
[Chorus 2X: King Just]
We gon' live, die, get by, high
Before I take this in, I'd rather a chair and fry
Why, M.C.'s, always wanna try
Homicide Hill, nigga, eye for an eye
[King Just]
Aiyo, I touch down, clutch crown, I brought back the New sound
I see the circuses in town, you clowns
Automatic live rounds, spit for my crown
Living adverbs and nouns, my metaphors astound
Leap over crowds, with one single bound
If you need more, this the record store where it's found
Yo, the low light, lounge, nigga, ask around
Used to talk about me, now you wanna give my ass a pound
Who select you clown, let loose the hound
Fourth down to go, hit the hole for the touchdown
Shake down to slow down, your projects to a ghost town
Three mics, three strikes, new pitcher on the mound
Rumble every round, still get beat down
Your face lift is now pararrel to the ground
Catch me on the rebound, if you can
Mr. J-U-S, fucking your girl on candid cam'
[Rush]
Yo, I blow styles like Nikki Bonds blowing trial
Guilty of a filthy freestyle and foul language
Perfect strangers, mark this rap scene stainless
Without a blemish, spend this from start to finish
The mad chemist, create a rhyme like Frankenstein
Then energy ever line without the lying
We fertilize letters, bring words to life
Preserve the life, to burn all you parasites back biting
You hate hiking on my style, niggas wanna dick ride?
Play the gate up, stay wearing knee high
Might terrorize tracks, with terrorist traps
Ask someone real, if I was kept sealed
And if revealed, skills explode like Oklahoma
Put the spicy niggas in comas, sniff the aroma
The sweet smell of success, farewell to your flesh
My style's so sick it was put on bed rest
God bless, if you try to test my commitee
My hood is all good, but then again it's all even
I see you live a little stable, violate and shit'll turn fatal
Meet my trigger finger friend napal
Clown, you walking on shaky grounds
The shit's violent, and niggas bust lyrical rounds
