Hafeese, Big Twan, Matt Fingaz, Labba, and F.T. Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1)

Lyrics

[Intro: Big Twan and Hafeese] Big Twan: Eddie Ill. What, what? It's S-Double, [?]. Good, what's the deal? Hafeese, Labba. What's good? Yeah. What's good? Uh. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yo, Hafeese, give it to 'em, son Hafeese: Eddie Ill & D.L. Uh. Street Smartz. Big Twan, F.T., Matt Fingaz, Labbala. Big Brooklyn. Uh. Uh. We get it on [?]. Uh, uh, uh [Verse 1: Hafeese] Yo, fuck your daddy. I'll be herbing your past with murderous blast Swerving on blacks chilling in a 'burban-ass hat Since knee-high, shorty from CI handle this beat I Young chicks used to be like, "Isn't he fly?" From inner cold, huddling, struggling, drug-smuggling The whole block's buzzling, Courvoisier-shot-guzzling At nights, I see Big Papa like stigmata The shit's proper, trying to live large like Big Hoffa Glock holster fashionable Amped and my passion to bull is either, least, splashing your crew Or smashing your boo in a world unsanitized When niggas glamorize hammers and Five Tens Guys causing calamity. Flows grammatical Tactical, lateral, over the avenues Plus I catapult wack emcees—they all vaginal Funny-style niggas that be flashing their ice I got a passion to fight. I'll grab the bull's horn and smash in the pipe Foul now but I'll be laughing at night 'Cause I'm telling you once and now I'm telling you twice It's raw [Interlude 1: Big Twan] Yeah, yeah, yo. Check it out. S-Double. Big Twan, check me out, yo. Yo, yo, check it out, y'all. Uh, yo, yo. (Bust it). It's the [Verse 2: Big Twan] It's the Twan wrecker burning down in your sector On the gold scepter, you niggas is soft. Check shit Now once it's formulated, players is getting traded Stapled and correlated, my style camphorated I'll rhyme raw for those who don't know by bar four Could tell this nigga here mastered the art of war Check it. I'll speak fluent, leave you laying congruent Twan bomb with armed units. Word to my aunt Eunice From here to Copenhagen, run through you like a Raven That's the two-five. You guys screaming, "Twan, you live" All my blows is lethal, known to touch souls of people Rap contact tap your cerebral, so check it I'm still your idol, a thirty-thirty rifle Fuck what you might do. I'm trife and I'll snipe you So what it is is what it is. Yo, Matt Fingaz "I'm straight biz. Fuck that," ayyo, how it is It's Big Twan, Labba, Matt, Hafeese Buda, F.T. Where the fuck you at? Big Twan, nigga. So, Matt Fingaz, bring it on, nigga Yo [Verse 3: Matt Fingaz] Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo I'm home alone with a ho, so stand bull Eat-her-out cannibal. Pussy hair flammable Barcode her fat ass and make it sound scannable Bust a hundred nuts in the first week—I'm animal Got my own label, rhyme and still borrow Fuck y'all, I'm broke, eating no Sbarro (Yo, what up, Matt Fingaz?). Man, we'll get 'em tomorrow "Fade" every fucking body like I'm little Jamal I admit it, y'all (Y'all, y'all). I ain't kidding (Y'all, y'all) Man, I'm the type to have Puff and [?] start up a bidding war Buy me an apartment apart from the one I'm in I am. I'm the illest CEO rhyming My shining quotables more than emotional Don't gotta pay for sex—I'll get that promotional Twenty bars of pain, the pain nonnegotiable Usually don't spit more than I'm supposed to do You little bitch, I've been ready to dead you Man, I'll throw you in the red light, ready to rent you [?]. Yeah, you, I meant too Here's the number to Fat Beats and tell 'em Matt sent you [Interlude 2: Labba and Matt Fingaz] Matt Fingaz: Faggots. Yeah. Labba Labba: The fucking greatest, nigga [Verse 4: Labba] I'm that nigga that's up in your house Fucking your spouse, slinging my dick in her mouth Listen, life's a bitch and we all going to Helly Had my main man fucking my broad up in this telly Life's a bitch, yo. Fuck these hoes Had my main bitch talking 'bout she love me, though Yo, bones in my funeral sing at that crossroad With a white bitch with no pussy and crossbows With rings and things and you what she bring? She didn't die from rapping. She died from guns clapping But, yo, what's the issue here? It's official here I'm skying to get five and high like our fiscal year Intensive care, crime my prayer Pun's the fucking greatest. Big's the fucking greatest I'll never say the pop for life. And every Motherfucker wanna live trife [Interlude 3: F.T.] Yo, Fuck That, yo. Yo, uh [Verse 5: F.T.] I got the dick that bitches love, bastard shit that niggas hate If you ain't getting papes, I should spit up in your face Fuck That'll die for the dough. I can't be found 'Cause I'm on the low somewhere, getting high with my ho You better keep a eye on your ho 'cause she might suck Another nigga dick if you don't supply her with blow Make sure that the iron is close on your hip or Inside of your coat. Just be hiding the toast before You be a dead rapper rhyming with ghosts. Just when You thought you were shining the most, they got a 9 on your throat Caught you on the way from rhymes since low Letting you know I ain't the motherfucker you should try to approach I'm no comedian, so why should I joke? Don't make me run up in your session, put a gun up in your session Take your girl in the mic booth and have a son up in your session Shots—two in a head, one in a intestine Nigga [Outro: Matt Fingaz] S-Double. Yeah. Eddie Ill & D.L. Cats wiling. [?] studio