(feat. Chino XL)



[Chino XL (Saafir)]

You locked down with no bail money to get yourself loose?

(Not fa' nuttin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

I hit you girl for free and that's alright wit' 'chu?

(Not fa' nuttin'!)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Nope.)

Caught slippin' wit' no heat inside your bubblegoose?

(Not fa' nuttin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

Pretty skillianaire niggas about to spit it at 'chu?

(Not fa' nuthin', that's somethin' that a thug'd do!)



[Saafir]

Not fa' nuttin'. I'll jump out that mild-mannered frame of glasses

and start whuppin' your ass. It's the rap game killa masta

kid who has a pool room with business and non-stop blastin' shit.

Tore cagenin' in what your lungs' incased in.

No comic book animation, just assassination.

All you fake-ass nigs would kill a fasination.

Cosmetic niggas would feel this villain plastic facement.

Call me Father Red, but for you, you think I'ma get a higher rankin'?

You fly cats is chickens, you featherless.

While you tryin' to get millions, I'm trainin' as a United States terrorist!

Drombin' these bomb before your planes get off the ground,

blowin' out the pilot and all flames that sound the same.

Y'all niggas is B-12 bumped up wit' a pound of fame.

I'm thirty-two degrees below freezin' in the game.

But some of you love, gettin' crossed in the pair of pliars.

I'ma call high yellow nigga keepin' hoes duckin' like a hair dryer



[Chino XL (Saafir)]

You locked down with no bail money to get yourself loose?

(Not fa' nuttin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

I hit you girl for free and that's alright wit' 'chu?

(Not fa' nuttin'!

That's not what a thug would do.

(Nope.)

Caught slippin' wit' no heat inside your bubblegoose?

(Not fa' nuttin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

Pretty skillianaire niggas about to spit it at 'chu?

(Not fa' nuthin', that's somethin' that a thug'd do!)



[Chino XL]

I kick that fly shit, my shit is New Jersey drive shit.

That B.-I.-G. 'Ready To Die' shit, Tupac 'All Eyez' shit.

That classic hot shit, Jag in garage shit.

You braggin', ain't got shit. Complainin' 'bout my shit.

PaChino's above average. Product of a mixed marriage.

I'm violent, you better be silent like the 'J' in spanish.

Immacurate, saw moons and stars and flames in back of it.

Rap past the untalented. Dangerous, haters try to silence it.

Couldn't accomplish it. I'm bringin' the ruckus, I promise it.

My skills are polished it. 'You wack, nigga.' I'm wack's opposite.

Drama's been poision pen venom bent up inside of your brain.

My lyrical syringes for dope fiends to take my name in vein.

Physical frame, the heron Frankie Lyman over-dosed on.

I'm strong, I make you look weaker than Usher wit' no shirt on.

I still attack tracks like two young-G raps. 

This industry's ill, it's a bunch of hyperchondriachs

and I'ma smack ya face off ya face for bitin' rhymes.

Like I've more skills than you niggas if you practiced for three lifetimes.

Lyrical hangtime. You wacker. Jump in the time machine

and soft the vagina that half of these rappas came out of.



[Saafir (Chino XL)]

You locked down with no bail money to get yourself loose?

(Not fa' nuthin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

I hit you girl for free and that's alright wit' 'chu?

(But not fa' nuthin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

You caught slippin' wit' no heat inside your bubblegoose?

(But not fa' nuthin'.)

That's not what a thug would do. Pretty

skillianaire niggas about to spit it at 'chu?

(But not fa' nuthin', that's somethin' that a thug'd do!)



[Chino XL (Saafir)]

I shine like Bruce Willis's bald spot in the sun rays.

I'm a mad rappa, beat you like the editor of 'Blaze'!

(For real 'cause Bill Clinton look like George Clinton 'cause he got

funked with Parliament, the Congress but I done funked all of it!)

Sick tales from the male Mary Magdaline. Chino's so raveshing,

you couldn't double XL if you was the magazine.

(The black Nazerine, takin' charism. The hell in the battle.

You mix with sugar and shit spice, you're not add hoe!)

You're gettin' sex pay-back from my lyrical syntex.

Nigga, ya index finga wouldn't trigga a bottle of Windex.

And I forgot more lyrics then you will ever write. Tight wild like

Eddie Murphey gettin' caught with that transvestite on that night.

You cats might get put to sleep like pills I be nodding on.

Foldin' niggas' Averexes while they still got 'em on!

(Buildin' underground side holes with lights dimmer than the ones in

Biggie Smalls's hallways. Colder than a menthol lip that's

haulin' rap in the fall. My foot deep in the ass of

niggas that's glock rhymin' me. I do to your future, dog.

I'm savage. 	That word is describin' me.)

("Scribin' me. Scribin' me...")

Chianardo DiCaprio been known to slap a hoe.

(What?)

I'm from that indian tribe called Nava-love-a-ho.

(I'm ill when I'm behind the feline butt-crack.

They say, 'How do you stay hard as hell?'

It's the barbell ring in my nutsac!)



[Chino XL (Saafir)]

You locked down with no bail money to get yourself loose?

(Not fa' nuttin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

I hit you girl for free and that's alright wit' 'chu?

(Not fa' nuttin'!)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Nope.)

Caught slippin' wit' no heat inside your bubblegoose?

(Not fa' nuttin'.)

That's not what a thug would do.

(Uh-uh.)

Pretty skillianaire niggas about to spit it at 'chu?

(Not fa' nuthin', that's somethin' that a thug'd do!) ("Uh-huh.")