[Chorus: Solomon Childs]
This the kinda song, that you'll never get a video
You'll never hear on daytime radio
Never perform on Tyra, or sit on the sofa with Oprah, this the kinda song
That after the verse come down, you hear the semis blow
Hands open, and heads roll, New York City King Kong
This ain't your average song
[Solomon Childs]
S. Childs I got a love for this street shit
So much raw flesh, my hood the meat market
Still swagger espionage and freak with it
Black tail me nautious, benz whistle down the boulevard like marauders
Hand-to-hand cuffed, face deep in the carpet
Glizzies in the war, with forest, send flowers to my opponents
It's a core and a kick, jumps pumps still on the blimp
Will dump one of you faggot ass niggas
Live from Staten Island, New York, West Brighton
Home of the eighth floor skyscrapers
Armageddon, exile to all of you traitors
Word to Fly Ty from Fort Green
Niggas don't want it, styles are fury, word to blood
We love it, when the drama's on, niggas be hiding
You can hear wheeze, bullets holes in dodged hair weaves
Fuck bullet birds, nigga, you open?
Now your body gonna freeze, only God can spare me
Style car hard jump suits, feel like '86 Juice Crew
With it, so play the tough guy role, and you can get it
[Chorus]