Oh My God

Lyrics

[Intro: Fabolous, DJ Clue & DJ OnPoint] Oh my god (new shit) Yeah, oh my god, yeah (Fabolous) Uh, oh my god (Paul Cain, Joe Budden, A-Team) [?], oh my god (Stack Bundles) Real talk nigga, oh my god (Desert Storm) [?] shit, oh my god (DJ OnPoint, Joe Budden) [?] (let's go, DJ OnPoint) [Verse 1: Fabolous] They call me F-A-Beezy (Uh), sometimes Stizzo (Uh) The wrist on freezy (Uh), neck on glizzo (Yeah) The coupe move easy (Yeah) at two-double-izzo (Woo) Truck look cheezy [?] (Clue) And it's jacked up like it sit on stilettos Can't you see the glit' on the pebble that sit on the bezel None of you little scraps couldn't get on my level Take more than a hot song to try to sit on the devil Got respect when I killed "Money, Power" the first time When they tried to knock down the towers the first time And the only reason I'm talking 'bout it Is so you know the real talk of New York's about it I'm with a bitch, with a tight ass that shakes Her suck game will one gulp: White Castle shakes Got the home right past the lake When I came they stop us, this time might blast the jake I'm the nigga on the couches in clubs And I stand out from the rest of the slouchers and scrubs Bottles and bottles with a train of pretty hoes That look like they could be amazing videos We in the caps with the Yankee logos Blowing on the stanky dro dro, the pinky snow-globe And you know the link be so "oh" Niggas look fast but the blinks be slow-mo I could spot a kinky ho though All hood bitch, she just tryna make you think she SoHo Plus I know the game like the back of my hand When I'm lazy, you can catch me in the back of sedans When I'm gone, you can bet I'm coming back with a tan With the Mickey D signs on the back of my pants And I act like the man, 'cause this my time Plus the hood say they miss my dimes, it's young money [Ad-Libs: DJ Clue] Yeah, DJ Clue Desert Storm (is this what you want, man?) Y'all can't fuck with my wolves, man, for real (huh?) Come on y'all, yeah (is this what you want?) [Verse 2: Joe Budden] Now niggas say they in the hood like Mister Softee They in the hood getting treated like Mister Softie "I clap the four-fifth", if you believe that Then you believe Rick James died of natural causes I'm twisting up trees-chronic to switching up ebonics Started in the fifth grade, switching up etonics Know a few dudes that'll spit at your dome So go see 'em if you really want invisible stones Try and get at me to hit him Just type forty acres and a mule in your navi system My hood—they kidnapping your kids See, we try and Tom Cruise and Jamie what collateral is Whack dudes in the game is a problem But they like Maurice Malone jeans, their name will stay on the bottom Murdering that? Nah, heard him, he's sub-par Coyote Ugly rappers, keep working at your bars [Ad-Libs: [?] & Paul Cain] (Yeah) Yeah, y'all know who it is Uh-huh (SLK) [?] Motherfucker, I'm Cain (Paul Cain) [?] fuck [?] [Verse 3: Paul Cain] Cain got the heart of a soldier, mind of a general Strategy is important, timing is critical We wear tracks out, lyrically I'm a beast From Brooklyn's backbone, epitome of the streets Only the strong survive, if you physically weak You get gunbutted, stabbed, shot, and critically beat 'Cause listen, ain't no shook hands in Brooklyn Presidential with the matching bullet bracelet, it's a good look, man Call me whatever, I hustle and I rap a little You see the color stones chain look like a pack of Skittles I give 'em anthrax, every bar is that official I know I'm a gangster, I ain't got to pack a pistol I don't rap in riddles, I give it to a nigga Straight, no chaser, I'm like Hen' on the rocks If it ain't the fifth, it's probably the Glock I'm the nigga Clue and Duro call when they need the bodies to drop If it ain't the chain, it's probably the watch When I ride if it ain't the truck or sedan, it's probably the drop Play the block, I don't party a lot I'm the one who sent the goon with the snub to get the jewels from the club I could never blow all my dough When I get at least ten people robbed at all my shows And all I know: money, clothes, birds, and cars Running from Po's, champagne, furs, and R's Quite sure you must've heard of the God If not I'm Cain, Triangle Offense, I'm a third of the squad I'm the first line of the defense, the star point guard Is back starting, y'all be used to riding the bench [?] fuck that "no women, no kids" shit When the shotty blows, everybody goes, business is business But dig this, fuck a guilty conscience I'll put a slug in you, really give you something to live with Fuck street fighting, I pull a hammer in a split second The kid breathe fire, and speak lightning These niggas ain't writing All they did was analyze my flow, and use my style so their liking, nigga [Ad-Libs: Paul Cain (DJ Clue)] Fuck (yeah), yeah (Desert Storm) Cain Ask about me [Outro: Paul Cain] Now the year's new, I laid my game flat I want my spot back, take two, motherfucker