b Vanish from the scene in a blur But barely seen, clearly heard in my action And act civil, my palm sizzle from the heat in my hand We're in your land
motto and song Live for tomorrow, cause today's almost already gone Lets get on, split your belly with the Maschetti, long Tears your arms of your shoulders
's Hillshire Farm I ain't gonna leave your family any time to mourn My clenched fist shows the power that's inside the palm The same 'palm that was taking
call my tire niggas a wop Though their papers ain't right, but they got weight on the block I love 'em uh Hand to hand, see your hands ache I drunk so
you don't even own your own violence Run away from home, your heard is still blue With the loneliness of you mighty men With your jaws, and fists, and
your donation Black and white bitches, Puerto Ricans and Haitians With Playboy titties, in heavy rotation Getting that paper, is my motivation In the palm of my hand
song Live for tomorrow, cause today's almost already gone Lets get on, split your belly with the Maschetti, long Tears your arms of your shoulders,
'! (Ahhh) Grindin'! (Ahhh) Grindin'! (Ahhh) Grindin'! (Ahhh) ...(Hu-huuh...) (Malice overlapping last line of Chorus) Patty cake, patty cake, I'm the baker's man I bake them cakes
the palm of my hand But man oh man, if I was grand I'd bang Roxanne [Chorus:] Roxanne, Roxanne, can't you understand? Roxanne, Roxanne, I wanna be your
kong we real play makers and this is not ESPN welcome to the gutter now watch the shit fest begin ain't no fuckin Jack Triple but I'm bakin cakes plus my cakes
new tan band With two K's in the palm of my hand, to show we ain't playing Where you stand is where you land, sprayin with either hand Wings expand
, your gat black And get your whole shit back phat Don't step to me with that We can't have that weak that Bob Digital inside your citadel Shit is critical
a hundred sack, want do Lets smoke and you ain't gotta choke that note just tote When you need a hand just holla at your pro Mr. Meth Man who rep the
his blessing to consent slaughter Your seven ounces of brain holds two percent water Literally, your dry ideas belong under your armpits Fully armed spit, my palm
In fact, I'm giving hoes a back hand slap Ain't that, one of the ten commandments of rap My feet tap like Sammy, drop your donation Black and white bitches
your residence, get you for your presidents (Die mother fucker, die) Make up the break up, I don't wanna wake up, If I don't got my cake up (Die mother