Текст песни Staten Island - Shyheim

Anytime that I wish*
I could turn it against you

Let me take you to my location, where they treat me like Naseem
Coming to America, it's Akim
Fastlife Fox, can't see him even if I had Visine
I stretch a nigga out like widescreen
Me, Myself & Irene, a bullet pistol right out of my jeans
Drive-by, cut off the high beams
Fly by, gun off your fly team
And hit 'em from the Bottom Up, bang bang, shout out to Shyheim
I ain't nothing like the rest of these dudes
I make a call and have seventy goons
One down on 'em, like a robbery, don't mess with me, fool
Who wanna dance, I'mma step on your shoes, you wanna dance?
I do the Gregory Hines and tap on your spine
Push your front to the back of your mind
Cook you up like crack on the grind, so look me up
You can find me in the Yellow Pages, under Staten, it's time

I'm straight out of Staten Island, 10304 Richmond County
I smoke that good soury, I be baked like brownies
High like howdy, or a Allen Ive' alley
You be fucking with that brown weed while my Al's Green
I'm a Killa Bee who killed a Bee, I took Rae's sting
I got my own website, I don't need no ning
Niggas in jail with no internet still got my link
And the Bottom be popping bottles, we don't cop no drinks

Aiyo, you can get popped through your Sox hat, you melt like hot wax
You can't say shit when I cock back
Here we go faggots, felt was radioactive
Every hi-tech vehicle, stereo hazard
I bag bad dimes, I go scary ol' fat chicks
One shot through the chest, aerial back flip
Word to the fid-eye, my gun bang like a trid-op
Back baby nid-eye, and swing glocks baptid-ize
Low's gold BS, so stone cold and fresh
If I blew in the air, I'd make the o-zone connect
Old road to death, my soul won't go to rest
Until I kill all my enemies, and smoke all they flesh

Growing up in the Staten, ya'll think shit don't happen?
Thirty years old, tossing them hats, man
Drug money, easy, niggas doing it backwords
Well fronting on my strip, I'll get them smoked like Backwoods
From the 2-4, to the number one kitchen
I'm the man in the porch, still I hold a Mr. Smithen
Westing, homeboy, best to get to stepping
Cuz I don't give a fuck about you, or what camp you repping
Chain gang's not to be fucked with, trust this
Cuz niggas like me, I'm all in, they bluffing
Niggas could catch me, posted on the Ave
Pushing the new Jag, blowing on purple grass
P.O.R.T. Richmond
Home of the greatest, still home of some snitches
I don't give a fuck, I got the chrome for them bitches
One shot deal, blow them bones out them chickens
It's Nizzle