John Gotti - Pound For Pound lyrics

[Intro: John Gotti] I don't think, pound for pound I don't think there's a more sincere, better guy in this fu*kin' world than me Th-the more for everybody You could see-see what I got, you could see what I got compared to what other people got And I can't believe what I read and what I hear I don't know who this guy is that they're talking about Maybe somebody could introduce me to him someday I don't believe 'em [Pre-Verse: Berner & Mozzy] I told Benny I got plenty Machine, what up? Mozzy, Gangland [Verse 1: Berner] They treat us like pharaohs, AK with two barrels Used to have a b*tch sellin' pussy for mе on a [?] In the middle of the candlе, there's a twenty grand stack Heat the glass, pull the wax out, and cut that b*tch in half Carbon paper 'round the paper, makin' fifty stack flimsy Feelin' like a magazine, sendin' cash gets tricky I'm bags not blicky No smalls in the pack When they froze the bank account, I thought I would fall back I miss [?] chat, used to wipe my phone clean Three times a week, different level to the stream Throw a few Gs on each, I'm somewhere out of reach When the phone loses service, I'll be back in town with heat My old plug out in Maryland, got caught up with heroin [?] at the four-point Sheridan fu*k a snitch, let 'em die slowly Around here I'm the big homie, the top [?] only [Verse 2: Mozzy] Yeah The opposition ain't no competition Loaded chopper in this Honda Civic, I stay on top of business It's sneak dissin' when you not specific The DA gave that boy a deal, he turned it down, he's very optimistic Perpetrator, baby, not the victim We unforgiven when it come to trippin', it spit out double digits You want this Pacquiao? Then come and get it I put them boogers 'round my Granny Goose referrin' to this flooded image It's hard to leave 'em when you love the trenches Where was the love when I locked and you ain't come to visit? They cracked the code, went through the phone and ain't find nothin' in it You touch a ticket then you tuck a ticket Tell 'em run the trinket, yeah We money motivated, fu*k these b*tches We pull up at back to back to back in all these younger Benzes I never ratted, that's a fact, it ain't no smut on ni**as Said all this hustlin' got me up on ni**as What's up with ni**as? [Verse 3: Conway the Machine] Street ni**a since a young boy, knee-deep in the game Cookin' up before school, school clothes reekin' of 'caine Always keep it a hunnid, you better keep it the same ni**as'll rest in peace you just for a small piece of my chain Need to refrain from ever speakin' my name Call my shooter, Method Man, one call, he bringin' the pain Say they just your homeboys while police think you a gang The people can't wait to hit you with RICO, think it's a game And the feds applyin' pressure to the weakest link in your chain Now listen to the weakened chief in a unbelievable strain (Talk to 'em) Say they shooters, believe you me, we do the same Scopin' a beam on that mop, I'm just increasin' my aim (Yeah) Nobody do it how we do it Educated, luxury, coke rap, street music The impossible? You seen Machine do it Made fifty off a thousand dollar pounds of mid, those the G-Units [Verse 4: Styles P] Tell ni**as, "Cut it out," they barely got heart Tell 'em, "Cut it out," hoppin' out the coupe, gun bu*t 'em out Throw 'em in the passenger, maybe it's the Porsche Or NSS Acura, let me be accurate Money in the vacuum in a house made to clap at ya fu*k about your shooter Me? I got a homie that'll throw you off the roof Vaycay in Aruba, he could dog food uzi in a Uber I been outside since Dougie Fresh, Slick Rick the Ruler Violate? That's a shot to your medula, point-blank I could run the point Take my points, that's how point rank (That's how I rank) Nevermind all this plug lingo The Ringo, hellcat engine, I would have dubbed Nino (I would have dubbed him) If this was New Jack City, I would have shot him in the face, brought the crew back with me Yeah From the first to the thirty-first, we outside doin' dirty work If you got it from the mud, you was dirty first [Verse 5: Benny the Butcher] The Butcher comin', ni**a When this rap sh*t over, I at least need twenty out it, M's So I'ma need less friends and more money counters Perfect life for who? That's what y'all think? That's funny, how? 'Cause I'm stressed I guess I just don't deal with no money problems (Money ain't a problem) How to make a million dollars? Guess I'm the perfect example of it Well, streets guided this far, so how can't I love it? (How can't I?) I used to take three hundred grams and cut it (Yeah) I trafficked strapped, pistol tucked down my belt line with a handle rubbin' On my white boy sh*t at the Mandalay chuggin' beers (Yup) Brought a chip to my town like a Tampa Bay Buccaneer (Griselda) ni**as say they 'bout to drop but got nothin' I wanna hear (Ha ha ha) Your first mistake was probably thinkin' I fu*kin' care They was out to get the squad but look at us now, it's too late Alphabet garage, C-L-S, R-T, Q-8 "fu*k the streets, you a rapper," That's how my plug used to tell it to me Fell out when I wanted a quarter-brick and he wouldn't sell it to me (Sell it to me) fu*k 'em The Butcher comin', ni**a [Outro: John Gotti] Dictated that I take each course I took I didn't have any multiple choice Black and [?] hair [?] five hundred dollars in this [?] [?] That was the only door open