Six Degrees (feat. Danny Brown)

Yeah, yo

Ay-yo, dangerous thoughts, mind of a militia

Bottles of the 1-50 poured over twistas

Broken bones and pillars, Staten Island's the illest

The biggest land fillers, we creep like caterpillars

Love razors, dirty guns with a few bodies

Teach **** how to walk again from the fucking shotty

Sixth sense, six pack, six degrees of separation

My evil third eye blinks with no hesitation

Dustbags, spoonfuls of sugar help the medi

Go down smooth and steady, blowing the green deadly

Hen weed pops, isolated of hash bricks

Needle left stuck in his arm, died of a bad fix

We still rock, still dry drawers on the stove

Got bread from back in the days, it's growing some mold

2Pac's back, my Glock's fat

After the gun smoke, you screaming, where my block at?

Both hands crusty, need a little lotion

That shit don't matter when I mix the color ocean

Smoking on potent, goons bagging up in the living room

Blocking the flat screen while I'm watching Juice

Move your big ass head, my favorite part's on

Q and the DJ battle, move or I'll scratch you

95's from 95's on the coffee table

Got them selling dimes still shiny as a nickel

Pistol in designer boxers, shoeboxes in bedrooms

Some got stacks but most discontinued

What's on the menu? Eat a rapper like butternut squash

Bark on a **** with the blade out

Run up in your safe house, how ironic

Knock a ring on a **** like somebody hit Sonic

Smoking on chronic, feeling like Nostradamic

See dying in your future, ****, I promise

Vomit colors seven series, TiVo the World Series

'Bout to miss the game hitting sevens on the slot machine

Dice game, Vice Lorder, drunk driving in the Charger

With a big titty bitch looking like Toccara

I don't know what you know

But if you know what I know, you better get ghost 'fore I get Ghost

I don't know what you know

But if you know how I know, you better get ghost 'fore I get-

Ay-yo, what up, son? They talking that money on the ground shit

U.P.S., Fedex, I deliver the pound shit

Raw dog, my hood's like Crazy Eddie's stamp bag

Stapleton **** stash they guns in shit bags

Doo-rags and blue and red flags, we keep new tags

Skinny or big jeans, ****, they still sag

Brag about two chains, four chains, six chains

Spread eagle bitches in the crib giving brain

Still keep them Clarks crispier than printed money

And the champion gear that I rock will hide my face for me

Mask down, 3-57 and the box of shells

Seville dead-arm the kid in the stairwell

Stem cell, my **** is scientific

We make crumbs and wax, the T-H-C is prolific

Fruitful, my Clan bundle cash like Pablo

Bank in the Caimans, stash-houses out in Cabo