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Viewing Lyrics for Gold:
| | | Artist: | Method Man |
| | Album: | Miscellaneous | | Track: | Gold | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 3 | | | | Lyrics: | [Intro: Method Man]
Aiyyo Shorty, yo that's my word
Oh, y'all smellin y'all piss now
y'all think y'all gold
Yo anybody get caught playin
Over here, I'm returnin em that's my
word that they be blasted
Anything from two-twenty to one-fourty, that's mine
Y'all niggaz
step the fuck off
Y'all niggaz ain't crazy for real
[Chorus: Genius]
Yo,
the fiends ain't coming fast enough
There is no cut that's pure enough
I can't fold, I
need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold to YOU
[Verse One: Genius]
I'm deep down in the back streets - in the heart of Medina
About to set off something
more deep than a misdemeanor
Under the subway, waiting for the train to make noise
So I
can blast a nigga and his boys - for what?
He pushed up on the block and made the dope sales
drop
Like the crashin of Dow Jones stock
I had to connect to cross seals, to catch more
mil's
Than ho-bitches got birth control pills
I'm in the park, settin up a deal over blunt
fire
Bum niggaz sleepin on the bench, they had em wired
Peeped my convo, the address of my
condo
And how I changed a nigga name to John Doe
And while we set up camp, we got
Vamp
Put the stake through his heart, I ripped his fucking fangs apart
Snake got smoked on
the set like Brandon Lee
Blown out the frame, like Pan Am flight 103
He got swung on, his
lungs was torn, the
kingpin just castled with his rook and lost a pawn
A regular on the
block, and played look-out
For playing predator with a glock, he should have took out
[Chorus:]
No neighborhood is rough enough
There is no clip that's full
enough
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold to YOU
The fiends ain't coming fast enough
There is no cut that's pure enough
I can't fold,
I need gold, I re-up and reload,
Product must be sold to YOU
[Verse Two:
Genius]
It's mandatory that
I supply all my troops with mega firearms
Big apes,
and spread em out like crops on a farm
to get CREAM, sometimes they repaint the scene
Like
the last episode on gates and other niggaz
plant bombs til the smoke from the blast becomes
thick
and flows through all they knew, he's gun sick
His glock clicks, like high-heeled
shoes on parquay floors
Mad sick, stand on hills and invade wars
Filthy foul, shoveling
dirt, he's out to hurt
For instance, chop off hands, attack worth
His idols would lock
down airports and next extort
some import, catchin ten percent of what the fiends snort
Up
in the ski resorts, up in hills
They move keys and had skis making drops on snowmobiles
The plan was to expand, catch seven figures, release triggers
And live large and bigger than my
nigga
Who promised his moms a mansion with mad rooms
She died, and he still put a hundred
grand in her tomb
Open wounds, he hid behind closed doors
And still organized crime and
drug wars
[Chorus:]
The fiends ain't coming fast enough
There is no cut
that's full enough
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold to
YOU
No neighborhood is rough enough
There is no clips that's full enough
I
can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold to YOU
The peers
that come is tight enough
There is no niggaz that's fucking up
I can't fold, I need gold,
I re-up and reload
Product must be sold... to YOU | | | |
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