Im trying to change this music, my nizzle, Its official, Im tired of hearing heaters that whistle and sizzle when gangstas pull out they pistols Im like money trying to get in the middle and settle the difference, cuz to many rappers is tripping, dont nobody wanna listen, plus Im tired of all the cussing and cursing so I started rehearsing working on converting a better version, for every person thats hurting lurking searching for lifes purpose, feeling suicidal and worthless but you aint certain, if you ready to die and leave this earths surface then cross over and see whats on the side of this lifes curtain, call me the mosses of rap, taking it back to tha days when this artifact wasnt bout the woman and gats, Im 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 Im goin to war.
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.
Its the Nicaraguan son of Big Pun, who flip tongs, on kick drums, and leave rappers like victims from big guns, better panic, cuz Im charismatic and automatic, when it comes to this phonographic magic, I gotta have it, like an addict, Im the magnet pulling these Asiatic and Hispanics bandits to make em put down tha cannons, Im standing for unity in rural communities filled with darkness and cruelty, where men get woman paid off of nudity, its soon to be all over, I crossover barriers of hate and racism plus I bring the Cross over, Im 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 Pacs mamma still crying.
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, dont 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, whos 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 isnt only in war, Its also in the words that we write, we got tha power
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 Im not honoree Im on the Rock like Sean Connery, and yall fond of me, the rest is just wanna bes