Ayatollah - Hafeese, Big Twan, Matt Fingaz, Labba, and F.T. Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1) lyrics

[Intro: Big Twan and Hafeese] Big Twan: Eddie Ill. What, what? It's S-Double, [?]. Good, what's the deal? Hafeese, Labba. What's good? Yeah. What's good? Uh. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yo, Hafeese, give it to ‘em, son Hafeese: Eddie Ill & D.L. Uh. Street Smartz. Big Twan, F.T., Matt Fingaz, Labbala. Big Brooklyn. Uh. Uh. We get it on [?]. Uh, uh, uh [Verse 1: Hafeese] Yo, f** your daddy. I'll be herbing your past with murderous blast Swerving on blacks chilling in a ‘burban-a** hat Since knee-high, shorty from CI handle this beat I Young chicks used to be like, “Isn't he fly?” From inner cold, huddling, struggling, drug-smuggling The whole block's buzzling, Courvoisier-shot-guzzling At nights, I see Big Papa like stigmata The sh**'s proper, trying to live large like Big Hoffa Glock holster fashionable Amped and my pa**ion to bull is either, least, splashing your crew Or smashing your boo in a world unsanitized When n***as glamorize hammers and Five Tens Guys causing calamity. Flows grammatical Tactical, lateral, over the avenues Plus I catapult wack emcees—they all vaginal Funny-style n***as that be flashing their ice I got a pa**ion to fight. I'll grab the bull's horn and smash in the pipe Foul now but I'll be laughing at night ‘Cause I'm telling you once and now I'm telling you twice It's raw [Interlude 1: Big Twan] Yeah, yeah, yo. Check it out. S-Double. Big Twan, check me out, yo. Yo, yo, check it out, y'all. Uh, yo, yo. (Bust it). It's the [Verse 2: Big Twan] It's the Twan wrecker burning down in your sector On the gold scepter, you n***as is soft. Check sh** Now once it's formulated, players is getting traded Stapled and correlated, my style camphorated I'll rhyme raw for those who don't know by bar four Could tell this n***a here mastered the art of war Check it. I'll speak fluent, leave you laying congruent Twan bomb with armed units. Word to my aunt Eunice From here to Copenhagen, run through you like a Raven That's the two-five. You guys screaming, “Twan, you live” All my blows is lethal, known to touch souls of people Rap contact tap your cerebral, so check it I'm still your idol, a thirty-thirty rifle f** what you might do. I'm trife and I'll snipe you So what it is is what it is. Yo, Matt Fingaz “I'm straight biz. f** that,” ayyo, how it is It's Big Twan, Labba, Matt, Hafeese Buda, F.T. Where the f** you at? Big Twan, n***a. So, Matt Fingaz, bring it on, n***a Yo [Verse 3: Matt Fingaz] Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo I'm home alone with a ho, so stand bull Eat-her-out cannibal. p**y hair flammable Barcode her fat a** and make it sound scannable Bust a hundred nuts in the first week—I'm animal Got my own label, rhyme and still borrow f** y'all, I'm broke, eating no Sbarro (Yo, what up, Matt Fingaz?). Man, we'll get ‘em tomorrow “Fade” every f**ing body like I'm little Jamal I admit it, y'all (Y'all, y'all). I ain't kidding (Y'all, y'all) Man, I'm the type to have Puff and [?] start up a bidding war Buy me an apartment apart from the one I'm in I am. I'm the illest CEO rhyming My shining quotables more than emotional Don't gotta pay for s**—I'll get that promotional Twenty bars of pain, the pain nonnegotiable Usually don't spit more than I'm supposed to do You little b**h, I've been ready to dead you Man, I'll throw you in the red light, ready to rent you [?]. Yeah, you, I meant too Here's the number to Fat Beats and tell ‘em Matt sent you [Interlude 2: Labba and Matt Fingaz] Matt Fingaz: f*ggots. Yeah. Labba Labba: The f**ing greatest, n***a [Verse 4: Labba] I'm that n***a that's up in your house f**ing your spouse, slinging my dick in her mouth Listen, life's a b**h and we all going to Helly Had my main man f**ing my broad up in this telly Life's a b**h, yo. f** these hoes Had my main b**h talking ‘bout she love me, though Yo, bones in my funeral sing at that crossroad With a white b**h with no p**y and crossbows With rings and things and you what she bring? She didn't die from rapping. She died from guns clapping But, yo, what's the issue here? It's official here I'm skying to get five and high like our fiscal year Intensive care, crime my prayer Pun's the f**ing greatest. Big's the f**ing greatest I'll never say the pop for life. And every Motherf**er wanna live trife [Interlude 3: F.T.] Yo, f** That, yo. Yo, uh [Verse 5: F.T.] I got the dick that b**hes love, ba*tard sh** that n***as hate If you ain't getting papes, I should spit up in your face f** That'll die for the dough. I can't be found ‘Cause I'm on the low somewhere, getting high with my ho You better keep a eye on your ho ‘cause she might s** Another n***a dick if you don't supply her with blow Make sure that the iron is close on your hip or Inside of your coat. Just be hiding the toast before You be a dead rapper rhyming with ghosts. Just when You thought you were shining the most, they got a 9 on your throat Caught you on the way from rhymes since low Letting you know I ain't the motherf**er you should try to approach I'm no comedian, so why should I joke? Don't make me run up in your session, put a gun up in your session Take your girl in the mic booth and have a son up in your session Shots—two in a head, one in a intestine n***a [Outro: Matt Fingaz] S-Double. Yeah. Eddie Ill & D.L. Cats wiling. [?] studio