Trash Talk
Ah yeah, that's right motherf**ers!
I'm back riding a funky track.
I got a story to tell you all,
So listen up!
Yo! Trip on this!
Verse 1
I'm rolling through the hood on a Saturday night,
got a 40 in my left hand, my dick in my right,
some chronic in my lap, a pager in my cap,
and a 9 millimeter in the small of my back.
I'm just chilling no place to be,
I take another pull off my 40 z.
I'm thinking 'bout spinning a fat a** tree,
a B to the L to the U-N-T.
Then I get a call on my dope cell phone,
check the caller ID, what up homes?
Yo, it's the Doom and his news ain't good:
"little Pookie got capped last night in the hood."
I feel like the world is fading away,
I saw Little Pookie just the other day.
Pookie was my boy we shared Kool-aid in the park,
now some punks took his life in the dark.
I ask Doomsday who the motherf**ers be,
"some punk a** b**hes from MIT."
The f**ing Institute, man I should've known,
I say meet me at my crib and hang up the phone.
Playtimes over I got a job to do,
and the world will be less crowded by the time I'm through,
and I'll keep rolling while bullets fly,
cause all my shootings be drivebys.
Verse 2
One minute to midnight we hit the street,
cold as a cadaver, hard as concrete.
Doomsday's packing a baby Mac,
got my AK-47 and the nine in my back.
The Alpine's glowing, P-E's flowing,
got my swerve on tight and my game face showing.
Them damn punks are gonna pay,
the Hawks on the case a bird of prey.
Then up ahead cold chilling in the street,
six motherf**ers from MIT.
I flick off the safety, check my grip,
and load a dum-dum clip.
I glance at the Doom to make sure he's packed,
his fingers on the trigger of his baby Mac.
Time to give a Newtonian demonstration,
of a bullet its ma** and its acceleration.
Nine on my lap AK in my hand,
I roll up slow like a snake in the sand.
I wait till I'm sure they can see my face,
then I bust out slugs to the beat of the ba**.
The streets sketched out in the full moon light,
MIT punks dying left and right.
There's nowhere to run don't even try,
cause all my shootings be drivebys.
Verse 3
Then silence hits the street like a bomb,
an eerie calm like the eye of storm.
Beneath the glow of an old street light,
dead MIT punks be the only sight.
6 motherf**ers no longer alive,
and Pookie's been avenged 1 for 1 plus 5,
and we'll be long gone 'fore the cops arrive,
'cause all my shootin's be, Drivebys.
Trash Talk
Ah yeah! I'm busting more sh** than an incontinent man at a chili cook-off!
The moral of the story is:
Don't f** with the Hawkman, 'cause the Hawkman ain't down with that eye for an eye bullsh**.
f** that! You take an eye and I'll take your motherf**ing head!