2-3 Break

[Intro]

You know what?

[Verse 1: Psycho Les]

People call me the drunk, or the thick funk distributor

Looter, bag your whole store like my shooter

Click back, put a hollow point cap in your temple

We get caught, it's strictly mental

A stone crook, I don't go by the book

You can't fool me with your gangster look

I truncate a Judas on my turf for wet pay

When I roll a blunt, they better rollerblade out

And don't try talking bold

'Cause I'll smack you with a bat like "Walking Tall"

What? You punk, who's gonna defend you?

When I bum rush your ass and stick an icepick in you?

Quick, your bitch caught a splinter from my dick

'Cause she gave me a woodie in the parking lot behind (McDonald's)

The bed slammer can stick a ho

With my king-size dick, and Don King sized hand again

[Interlude]

Two, three, break!

[Verse 2: Fashion]

I got so much of this style coming from my lips while

Washed-up ducks get dumped in motherfucking shit piles

Bang, I got my own thang, gang, ain't it proper?

Drop a hollow-point shelly on a copper (C'mon)

Let 'em fucking know who's the Kool, where I'm coming from

Slept for a while on my style now I'm stunning 'em

Bagging 'em, plus I hit they hoes in the mean (Yee-haw)

'Cause all I ever want is fame, bitches, and the green

Seen crazy niggas get lost in the shuffle

With dreams turned to rubble then bust like a bubble

Ta-dow, now (Ha), that's how it's falling

Whether I'm hitting skins or I'm motherfucking balling

Hanging with my crew on the Peekskill plain

I throw my shit when laying a bitch so get off my dick

Trick, you know my style, no, it ain't no use

'Cause I can keep your ho wet like a fucking douche (It's like that)

[Interlude]

Two, three, break!

[Verse 3: JuJu & Gab]

Taking the mic, no haps, I be the owner

My rhymes will make niggas collapse into a coma

Product of a concrete hell, I'm on a mission

Deadly with intent to shell the opposition (Yeah)

Fucking with this flow, come on, yo, that's treason

Niggas fuck around and get shot for no reason

Junkyard nigga, represent every time

Corona's in the house and, yo, Gab (Off the Richter Scale)

My rhymes quake up to a 9.4, ready for war, come forth

I'll floss my fronts with your spinal cord

Thought he got the drop, I possessed inside

Better off trying to survive under a cyanide landslide

But that ain't nothing like a penny in the vault (What?)

'Cause I assault niggas who couldn't launch shit with catapults

So if you ever hear the name Gab One

Don't even sweat it, the worst hasn't even begun (Kid)

[Outro: JuJu]

Word up, it's like that, Beatnuts, Triflicts in the house, yeah

Nineteen (Nineteen), gettin' money (Gettin' money)

You know what I'm sayin'? (You know what I'm sayin'?)

Word (Word)