[Intro]
Aiyo, got ya muthafucka seein stars
(Brown Hornet, Pop)
Blastin muthafuckas out the muthafuckin box
(Out the box)
[Pop Da Brown Hornet]
Shake rattle & roll, ratters than ya peasants ya peasants
Form a line, while I'm handin out presents
Stiff jabs or stiff kicks, for a nigga
Big back with stiff dick, for my bitches
Burn like a cancer stick, free loaded spit
Them cops that killed Diallo, they can suck my dick
41 shots, enough lead to take a city exam
Or ain't that one man with the NYPD
Who need the Ku Klux Klan
I ain't runnin or hiddin, like 2Pac I'm riddin and dyin
New York, New York, It's where brothers are sport
Make it to the playoffs, don't get happy get ya head blown off
We got dick for nuts, puttin fingers on red buttons
Ready to launch, tellin us, turnin ya arms
Hell no baby, ya devils must be crazy
Out of ya mind, I'm holdin on to my nine
Chorus: Smoke (Pop Da Brown Hornet)
No More Mr. Nice Guy (No More Mr. Nice Guy)
No More Mr. Nice Guy (No More Mr. Nice Guy)
No More Mr. Nice Guy (No More Mr. Nice Guy)
No More Mr. Mr. Mr. Mr. Mr. Mr.
[Pop Da Brown Hornet]
You hold every sentimental
As for me, I lost my feelings somewhere inside the temple
Where they got throat cutters and back stabbers
A life is lost right in front of your eyes, nothing really matters
You just go on living, Projects is like prison
We got fags and dikes, razor blades and knifes
Homo thugs, and all type of drugs
Addicts, snitches, bitches, holdin ya pictures
With nothin on but a thong
Fuck me, leave at night, for a trailer visit, fuck you in the morn
Bad boys, we killin toys, they muffle and noise
Never lose they boys, they just keep on squeezin
Bodies drop for no reason, kill you for breathin
Rumble till we even, or till one of us die
Eye for an eye, yo it's no more Mr. Nice Guy
Heads gotta fly, we 'em up, let 'em hang dry
Choke 'em till they pass out, wake up in ya briefs
Playin for keeps, yo fuck you and your peeps
Never had it good, my last album went wood
Bought my words when you hear this, I'm movin out the hood
Takin no prisoners, no eye witnesses, if ya sensitive
Back up, you want no part of this
Ghetto bastard, who never got his ass kicked
I just stay kickin ass, got the mic and the smash
Step up, feel the blast from the Brown Bomber
You don't really want drama, quick to start shit
But then go runnin to ya mama "Dial 911
Brown Hornet on the new cent, he fuckin with my son"
Bitch tell that piece of shit to finish what he started
With this cold hearted, half retarded, hip hop artist
Weak rapper, told ya lame ass not to cry
But you gotta fry fuckin wit no more Mr. Nice Guy
Chorus
[Outro]
Aiyo, aiyo, aiyo, this Smoke right here
The new millennium, ain't no more Mr. nice guy
That's right, that's right
When you see us in the club, there's no more Mr. nice guy
When you see us in the streets, no more Mr. nice guy
That's right, Baby Pop, Brown Hornet baby
Smoke Records, RNS Productions, Ain't no more Mr. nice guy
We're not playin, it's not a game