Verse 1
I’m trying to change this music, my nizzle, It’s
official, I’m tired of hearing heaters that whistle
and sizzle when gangstas pull out they pistols I’m
like money trying to get in the middle and settle the difference,
cuz to many rappers is tripping, don’t nobody wanna
listen, plus I’m tired of all the cussing and cursing
so I started rehearsing working on converting a better version,
for every person that’s hurting lurking searching for
life’s purpose, feeling suicidal and worthless but
you aint certain, if you ready to die and leave this earths
surface then cross over and see what’s on the side
of this life’s curtain, call me the mosses of rap,
taking it back to tha days when this artifact wasn’t
bout the woman and gats, I’m sick of this rap, matter
a fact, how many more woman you fin to pimp, and gangstas
we gonna cap, we murdered them all, Pac and Biggie there
aint here anymore, better do something, sound the trumpet,
cuz’ I’m goin to war.
Hook
To all the playas popping off at the lip, oh, fronting the
street game like you a pimp, no, ya coming up but going
down wit tha ship, bro, Ya better let that thang go, and
all tha ladies that be shaking they hips, oh, up in tha
strip clubs stacking em chips, no, top of tha world, but
you down in tha pits, ma, Ya better let that thang go.
Verse 2
It’s the Nicaraguan son of Big Pun, who flip tongs,
on kick drums, and leave rappers like victims from big guns,
better panic, cuz I’m charismatic and automatic, when
it comes to this phonographic magic, I gotta have it, like
an addict, I’m the magnet pulling these Asiatic and
Hispanics bandits to make em put down tha cannons, I’m
standing for unity in rural communities filled with darkness
and cruelty, where men get woman paid off of nudity, it’s
soon to be all over, I crossover barriers of hate and racism
plus I bring the Cross over, I’m out to change all
the images in our villages, and all the religious criticisms
from church citizens, always pointing, judging, shrugging
ya shoulders at the adulterers, fornicators, and cobras but
never question our culture, Biggie prophesied ready to die,
50 took 5 and got rich and Pac’s mamma still crying.
Verse 3
Suckahs surfing the internet trying to find kids for sex,
and placing bets, credit card fraud is next, they write
them checks for chicks on em porno flicks, when they shake
they hips sick wit them chain and whips it gets, even worse,
truth hurts, don’t be mad at me, I aint the one getting
paid enhancing they anatomy, and gradually, they rotten
out like bad cavities, then periodically prostituting and
armed robberies, this how we raise the little children
of America to grow up and be criminal, rapist, and bomb
terrorist, from the second there born, innocent but torn,
between these 2 worlds fighting for souls, like tug a war,
who’s keeping score got juveniles in the morgue,
while killas winning awards, and steady and praising the
Lord, they cheer and roar, ego tripping has gotta stop,
gotta shine and rhyme in his name instead of hip-hop.
How many more of our people got die, before we decide, genecide isn’t only in war, It’s also in the words that we write, we got tha power
No Verse
I keep it gully like a Cali general running the streets,
ya freeze when I speak, memorized my style is unique, we
bringing the heat like the Bahamas talking the word from
Nicaragua to communist countries like China, Iraq and Havana,
canta lo, Godson levanta lo, They lace the beats then I
rock the flow, she hit them notes, collab then we rock
the show, think we blessed, no doubt, count the dough,
we make about oh 25-30 a show, people flying from other
countries just to hear tha Bone flow, sick wit the skills
to the point that they wanna honor me, but I’m not
honoree I’m on the Rock like Sean Connery, and yall
fond of me, the rest is just wanna be’s