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Текст песни Masta Killa, Superb - The Man

Masta Killa, Superb - The Man слова песни

[Superb]Fuck y`all niggas talkin about?My flow, right?Everytime I did this shit, you niggas got hype yoSuperb`s the next nigga, respect for those before meIn these last days, I`m bringin rap gloryIn the streets they hear it, some will remember the lyricsIn my demise, some will remember me in spiritAnd I ain`t tryin to die like `Pac and BIGAnd lose my talent to a cultured thug lifeI`m a man, seein mindstate of balancetakes years, fam`, like fuck y`all plansSee, we feel like stars, shine like starsFuck stars, fuck y`all, we examplesSamples of the hood, thugs from the hoodYoung bloods in the hood like, they love the hoodThey love the young bitches, nickel bags and gunsIn the benches, we see it all off the benchesI learned how to sew seein niggas stitchesAnd the pain, don`t even ask who `bout the painThey killed main, I won`t maintainBy the bus stop, two blocks from the dust spotsSomebody busted shots, they said Sam got gotDamn, he wildin in the back cab rapThat eat swine, fucked his arms and hold ninesThat`s Far Rock for you, my block for youY`all bitches niggas only live in jail cuz ock know youWhen I come home, watch how shots blow youThrough the upholstery, even through your mom`s groceriesLittle Sam died three months laterHe got set up in the elevator, his cape was regulatedHis name faded, he has a son by this bitch he datedShorty waited for two dead case kidHe`d get them niggas kids if he couldn`t get themThen one day out of the blue, BAM!He heard shit like last names and cars rarinThe Larger Than Life niggas was about to leave here[Masta Killa]My people stressed out, we seventy dead and starvinSon couldn`t walk through my yard past curfewI rose from an era of terror where it was legalto tote guns, get red and bust a nigga headAnd if pussyhole for dead, left pussyhole for deadWhat the fuck was his song?Never heard of this till niggas started snitchinI`m still stitchin motherfuckers upI deal with high sciences, supreme refinementsTill any wicked germ is destoryed and burnedWe the Gods without questionProve what I`m manifestin, all show ways and actionsHopeful that, lick your cannonI`m ill when I shoot to peal like Ed O`BannonIn my head is a thought, perm cocked, off safetyShots fired, follow blood trails to the stairwellFaced down, he lay sound, rounds to his crownShorty hip flock was midtown, big fly holdin him downWith the dead-arm, siren soundsBullets chip brick, precincts followed by the ambulanceRespond to the bomb threatI picked up his MC tray through the mastersI`m sharper than my carpentry bladeThe culture carven into mountainsThe faces of my eight classmatesThat stomp through the streets of states for Protect Ya Neck tapesWu-Tang T-shirts and bandanasWe snatch mics and snuff niggas who jack the rappin

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