Gold

Hey, yo, shorty, yo, that's my word

Oh, y'all smelling y'all piss, now y'all think y'all gold

Yo, anybody get caught flinging over here

I'm returning 'em, that's my word, they getting blasted

Anything from two-twenty to one-forty, that's mine

Y'all need to step the fuck off

Y'all **** ain't crazy for real

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

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 **** and his boys, for what?

He pushed up on the block and made the dope sales drop

Like the crash in the Dow Jones stock

I had a connect to cross sales

To catch more mills than ho bitches got birth control pills

I'm in the park, setting up a deal over blunt fire

Bum **** sleeping on the bench, they had him wired

Peeped my convo, the address of my condo

And how I changed a **** name to John Doe

And while he set up camp, he got vamped

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 one-oh-three

He got swung on, his lungs was torn

The kingpin just castled with his rook and lost a pawn

A regular on the block that played lookout

For playing predator with a glock, he should've took out

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

Yo, 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

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 **** plant bombs

Till the smoke from the blast becomes thick

Then flows through, all they knew, his gun sick

His glock clicks like high heeled shoes on parquet 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 extort

Some import, catching ten percent of what the fiends snort

Up in the ski resorts, up in the hills

They move keys, he had his skis making drops from snowmobiles

The plan was to expand, catch seven figures

Release triggers and live large and bigger than my ****

Who promised his moms a mansion with mad room

She died and he still put a hundred grand in her tomb

Open wounds, he hid behind closed doors

And still organized his crime and drug wars

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

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

There's no cuffs that's tight enough

There is no **** that's fuck with us

I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload

Product must be sold to you