The whole rap game turned into a 2-Pac-a-don Gangsta boy boppin', with his nuts and cock in your palm Playa pass the baton, got a few jack tools and bullet
like Maurberry you know I'm not the ordinary I keep one that keep one Yeah my bitch bag bitches too, we the illest crew Nothin' change but the rims upgrade It's quarters
a champion I'm dumpin' on 'em I'm actin' a motherfuckin' donkey on 'em Chorus Verse seven {lil' ya} I'm bout to do a jack I got on all black In my hand lies a tool
what happened to him His family prayin' 'cause one day they might back into him With nothin' to lose, I walk through clutchin' my tools?' Ice-grill
to dress better, I stay fresh more fitted caps than bat catchers. I'm the crack the smack the gun the rule the gat the strap the gun the tool the Mother
What, you can find me on the corner with stones, quarters and zones Or dope and powder broke, and our sale's soap and flour And most of our customers
on, come on, come on, come on Ain't nothin' nice or sweet They don't even much understand this Look, now when I crawl up out the rove' I got quarters
livin let alone you livin it up Niggas is stuck, I'm tryin to keep my head above water Not stressed about dyin for a quarter in a shorter My time get
glittery jewels in (Masseratis) I don't go in the club til' we get all my goons in (Not at all) The bouncers don't frisk so we get all the tools in (
Morbidly studying your gross anatomy Perinium is sullied with moldering pus A mass of gelatinized forensick liquidity Locating my trocar, the tool of
magician Now I see we're in the boat in two-by-two's Only the heart that we have for a tool we could use And the very close quarters are hard to get
lac, to a Benz on Broddas Standin' on the corners, slingin' crack and stacking dollars Till it's time to cop a brick and I'm tired of moving quarters
enough of them, yo bust em in. Vinnie I had enough of them, yo bust em in. Lost bust em in. Bust bust em in. (3x) I treat tools like bitches cause I
to eat Broad daylight, the school kids are laughing at him It doesn't matter, he's battling a traffic jam A Pacman tryna come up a quarter Joystick, put
duck sufferin succatash when the trigger blast I'mma put your beak on your fitted hat Where the liquor at? Sip of yak That bitchh and a vicious track ? Sly Pro tools
panes, my brain aint tha same no more, movin' just like a criminal, but my mind still carries me. I'm seeing the bloody images of tha tools that bury
the cars smokin'] Man, lean fast, peel the whip What dealership you dealing with Potangrams, damn, we nothin' you familiar with More killin', killin', what's poppin' 5, the tools
eight Four And if you can't move it all, call your dog Jam him up, and tell him, "Fool, me and you about to ball" Three Split it up, four quarters-a-