THEODORE UNIT - Smith Brothers lyrics

[Intro: Ghostface Killah]

Uh huh, ba-by, ba-by, uh, it's goin' down

This is that muthafuckin' nigga (off the sound)

Yeah, uh, bulletproof muthafuckin' gooses outdoors

For all the streets, all the dusts in the streets

(Let me get a sip of that, let me get a sip of that)

Rusty projects and all that, the radiators is bulletproof

Yo, yo, come on, ah yo yo

[Ghostface Killah]

What up cousin, this is most high wizardry

Got's to watch niggaz, so I stay on my grizzly (uh)

These young boys comin' at me (yeah)

Lookin' at these faggots, like yeah, you get amped off of Pepsi

Damn, what kind of cards you delt

Does your elevator go up? (Nope) You ain't rap too tight

Right, you can tell me, G-H to O-S-T

Two hundred Bees'll get you killed by coke head Skeet

This is murder, you can get it, if my fam don't eat

And, we slam niggaz, like we Lil' Malik

We want that Powerball money, Easter bunnies, Wool-light money

Hey dunny, we rock a half of mill and look bummy

And bounce to the projects, pop Becks, cop Tec's

Top wrecks, execs got next, what the heck

I'm fed, you'se dead, that's said, no more wet

The cameras is rollin', bitch, quiet on the set

[Chorus: Ghostface Killah]

You can never front on, jump or you get lumped on

Burners in your face, don't you get nervous on me

We got so many gats, and them big Mac's

Somebody get the boy, I get the wildin' on black

Tell 'em, we will, we will, rock you, pop you

We will, we still, got you, got you

[Trife Da God]

Aiyo aiyo, it ain't a game (nah)

This kid is serious about his change (uh-huh)

Ya'll a bunch of wacko jacko's, amped off your names

Call me Sugar Ray, the way I dance on you lames

My right hand'll sting you and ding you, leave stamps on your brain

I got, out of state of niggaz that'll kill for beers

Cuz you, easy to pop like balloons filled with air

I dare ya'll faggot asses, punch niggaz with glasses

Back in my third grade classes, squeezin' asses

My niggaz is never over, understand

I'm a 2Pac fan, this is the realest shit I ever wrote

Butter soft, lead the coke, matchin' my kicks

So make sure, you get my sneakers when you snappin' that flick

And I advise you, to carry that Bible for survival

Surprise you, return like Jesus, without the costume

Come on young'n, you dumbin'

I've been doin' this shit since King Culling, cookin' grams in the oven

[Chorus x2]