the notorious b.i.g. ☆ niggas

Yeah, yeah, yeah,
Ay Yo peep the style and the way the cops sweat us
The number one question is can the Feds get us
I got vendettas in dice games against ass betters
And niggas who pump wheels and drive Jettas, take that with ya

Hit ya, back split ya, fuck fist fights and lame scuffles
Pillow case to your face, make the shell muffle
Shoot your daughter in the calf muscle
Fuck a tussle, nickel-plated
Sprinkle coke on the floor, make it drug related, most hated

Can’t fade it, while ya’ll pump willy, I run up and stunt silly
Scared, so you sent your little mans to come kill me
But on the contrilli, I packs the mack-milli
Squeezed off on him, left the paramedics breathin soft on him
What’s ya name?

Who shot ya Mob ties like Sinatra
Peruvians tried to do me in, I ain’t paid them yet
Tryin to push 700’s, they ain’t made them yet
Rolex and bracelets is frostbit
Rings too, niggas round the way call me Igloo Stick who?
(motherfuckers)

[Chorus]
What, what, what, Jay-Z, Big Smalls, nigga shit ya draws
Brooklyn represent ya’ll hit, ya fall
Ya crazy, think a little-bit of rhymes can play me
I’m from Marcy, I’m varsity, chump, your JV

(Jigga) Jay-Z

Nigga baby, My Bed-Stuy flow’s malicious
Delicious, Fuck three wishes, made my road to riches
From 62 gem stars, my moms dishes
Gram choppin, police van dockin, D’s at me doors knockin

Keep rockin, No more Mista Nice Guy
I twist ya shit the fuck back with the pistols
Blazin, hot like cajun,
hotter than leaving holding work at the Days Inn
With New York plates outside, get up outta there, fuck the ride

Keep ya hands high, shit gets steeper
Here comes the Grim Reaper
Frank Wright, need the keys to your Integra
(That’s right)
Chill homie, the bitch in the Shownies told me
Your holding more drugs than a pharmacy
You ain’t harmin me, so pardon me
Pass the safe before I blaze the place
and here’s six shots just in case

Yeah, yeah, yeah, for nine six, the only MC with a flu
Yeah I rhyme sick, I be what your tryin to do
Made a fortune off Peru, extradite, china white hero(i)n
Nigga please, like short sleeves I bear arms
Stay out the way from here on
(Clear) gone

Nea Gutter had two spots
The two for five dollar hits, the blue tops
Gotta go, Coolio mean it’s gettin Too Hot
If Fey’ had twins, she’d probably have two Pacs
Get it? Tu-pac’s?

Time to separate the pros from the cons

The platinum from the bronz
And butter soft shit from the leather on the Fonz
The S1 diamond from my eye class don
A Chan Don sipper from a Rosay nigga, huh
Brook Na, sippin on

Cristal forever, play the crib when it’s mink weather
The M.A.F.I.A. keep canons in they Marc Buchanans
Usually cuatro cinco, the shell sink slow, tossin ya
Mad slugs though your Nautica, I’m warnin ya