Trife Da God - Smith Brothers lyrics

[Intro: Ghostface k**ah] Uh huh, ba-by, ba-by, uh, it's goin' down This is that muthaf**in' n***a (off the sound) Yeah, uh, bulletproof muthaf**in' gooses outdoors For all the streets, all the dusts in the streets (Let me get a sip of that, let me get a sip of that) Rusty projects and all that, the radiators is bulletproof Yo, yo, come on, ah yo yo [Ghostface k**ah] What up cousin, this is most high wizardry Got's to watch n***as, so I stay on my grizzly (uh) These young boys comin' at me (yeah) Lookin' at these f*ggots, like yeah, you get amped off of Pepsi Damn, what kind of cards you delt Does your elevator go up? (Nope) You ain't rap too tight Right, you can tell me, G-H to O-S-T Two hundred Bees'll get you k**ed by coke head Skeet This is murder, you can get it, if my fam don't eat And, we slam n***as, like we Lil' Malik We want that Powerball money, Easter bunnies, Wool-light money Hey dunny, we rock a half of mill and look bummy And bounce to the projects, pop Becks, cop Tec's Top wrecks, execs got next, what the heck I'm fed, you'se dead, that's said, no more wet The cameras is rollin', b**h, quiet on the set [Chorus: Ghostface k**ah] You can never front on, jump or you get lumped on Burners in your face, don't you get nervous on me We got so many gats, and them big Mac's Somebody get the boy, I get the wildin' on black Tell 'em, we will, we will, rock you, pop you We will, we still, got you, got you [Trife Da God] Aiyo aiyo, it ain't a game (nah) This kid is serious about his change (uh-huh) Ya'll a bunch of wacko jacko's, amped off your names Call me Sugar Ray, the way I dance on you lames My right hand'll sting you and ding you, leave stamps on your brain I got, out of state of n***as that'll k** for beers Cuz you, easy to pop like balloons filled with air I dare ya'll f*ggot a**es, punch n***as with gla**es Back in my third grade cla**es, squeezin' a**es My n***as is never over, understand I'm a 2Pac fan, this is the realest sh** I ever wrote bu*ter soft, lead the coke, matchin' my kicks So make sure, you get my sneakers when you snappin' that flick And I advise you, to carry that Bible for survival Surprise you, return like Jesus, without the costume Come on young'n, you dumbin' I've been doin' this sh** since King Culling, cookin' grams in the oven [Chorus 2X]