It’s Time

Lyrics

Nick Wiz ft. Cella Dwellas - "It's Time" [Emcee(s): Phantasm and U.G.] [Producer(s): Nick Wiz] [Hook: U.G.] What, what?!? CDs, kid. You know the steez Get cheese, make G's, and breeze 'cause this time Me and my man got the plan to rake shit Fuck earning respect, son—we got to take it [Verse 1: Phantasm] This rap game's Insane.  Last year, niggas didn't know my name Crazy. Now they wanna pop champagne when Back in the day, couldn't get a glass of Alize. Ass- -out with no pay, stuck around the way DiBiase won't stop hip hop 'til I win And write dope stories like Iceberg Slim For years, been rocking Nikes and rocking mics. Now my BMX Turn to CBR bike, weekend flights Come on now. We're trying to lock it down like the Wu Stack G's like the fool. Federation is the crew My spot is sewn. You'll get dropped in my zone, which is 718. I'm in and out of every state, got More Holmes than Larry, stay Dirty like Harry Shoot and run like Rick Barry. Emcees? They talk about a battle, but they ain't yet ready for war My squad's raw, throwing rappers in a figure-four I figure y'all rap style is inferior CDs is superior, we ain't hearing ya [Verse 2: U.G.] U.G. stay Flashing like a cop's badge, attract shorties like Coach bags I'm dashing, my blood's cold like the Aspens Smash men, the baddest. My friends, I hold the world up like Atlas, miraculous raps tackle cliques like Cops on FOX. Cheap-shots to your chops like a LAPD nightstick, I stick like icepicks and rip the Mic quick. My right hand, left hand drink-spilling Rap villain illing, got to make a killing—it's time Twist rhymes, hit dimes with sun and rubbers Got mad girls from New York Undercover like Malik Yoba, blow your Range like a Rover Never sober, stay twisted like the lips on Rocky Balboa I told ya: this time, sir, we're coming thorough So grab your weapon, bust off, and represent your borough [Hook: U.G.] What, what?!? CDs, kid. You know the steez Get cheese, make G's, and breeze 'cause this time Me and my man got the plan to rake shit Fuck earning respect, son—we got to take it [Verse 3: Phantasm] A lot of Niggas on the sidelines ride mines without Knowing the regulations and the guidelines of hip hop Long-range, third album banging when it drop Whether it's on Loud or not. You go Ahead and wreck niggas and sweat triggers. I'm trying to Get figures and buy cribs and Vigors. Gold- -digger sluts get one nut bust in their face Or butt, trying to strut for what? I want More than free clothes for videos, I'm tired of these Promo show—that's no dough. Fuck a ho all week They're bums, but, in the club, they act shady Get your life in shape 'cause I'm living well, lady I got all the props that a nigga could want and I Flex all the styles that a nigga could flaunt. For flows? I'm still flipping 'em. Emcees? Still ripping 'em One of the best, on a quest like Chip and 'em [Verse 4: U.G.] Check this rap Pro. My stats show that I'm ferocious My brain's haunted like ghost ships, I hold joints like roach clips My flow hits like heavyweights, so place your wager I'm major, my shit's hot like Asia. Rap mayor I smash and serve your ass like Arthur Ashe. You pop Trash, I'm up in your face like airbags to break your jaw (*Click*) Get yours wrapped in gauze, son I sting like BB guns, done done dum-dums, hit Dumb ones. No time for "Fakin Jax" like Pete Rock Built like sheetrock with Tommy sweaters in more colors than Peacock tails, I'm Fabulous like Moolah My nigga tried to rob a gas station like Abdullah from Car Wash. I squash emcees like Sasquatch In battles, my fans hold me down like shackles You get tackled by a Rotten Apple resident. I got bent The first time off of "Eric B.'s the President" [Hook: U.G.] What, what?!? CDs, kid. You know the steez Get cheese, make G's, and breeze 'cause this time Me and my man got the plan to rake shit Fuck earning respect, son—we got to take it