Clipse - Hitman for Hire lyrics

[Red Cafe] Want a hit? Gimme an hour plus a pen and a pad Now when go down.. y'allll Who won't stop it? When them things get co*ked who won't pop it? Who's trying to slow down the quick come up? Of a hitman, what wha what what [Verse - Malice] You can tell by the walk and by how the chain swing Got the kinda money most n***as ain't seen Most n***as never pushed that machine With 350 plus of pure horse power And the fact that I push pure powder To the point of no return is something I ain't proud of Let the plush j**els symbolize the love For the karats on the wrist I tend to spend just because My life no less a dream at best Lured her loving from London from where the Queen rests Pimpish me took her straight to Mickey D's When she ordered her Royal wit cheese sh**, my whole clique pop Cristal wit ease And pop pistols wit even more ease sh**, we do the sh** that you can't conceive And I would hate having your mother grieve, motherf**er! [Chorus] [Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire [R Cafe:] You want work put in I'll have that work put in [Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire [R Cafe:] You lookin for a gangsta, I'm a gangsta [Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire [R Cafe:] I handle my business, you don't like me handle your business [Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire [R Cafe:] You lookin for a gangsta, I'm a gangsta [Verse - Red Cafe] Uh, the boss of my days is back playa Talk greazy, we don't call it rap playa Easy, Izzah they say I'm special They like the seven but, love me in that S Coupe My boxes used to have horses, aight Now I'm soaking the Boxster Porsches, aight Got princess cut in my crosses, aight Enough to make them coppers nauseous aight Now I been shot in the neck, that was almost fatal Now I'm the Shoot-a-Homie never under the navel I'm in they hood like illegal cable Shakedown, 911's a joke in my town I'm b**h-n***a proof, 180 proof, liquor proof I got to make a n***a disappear, trigger poof! Coach said I wasn't good wit my jumpshot So I get upclose when I'm bucking my toast, Izzah! [Chorus] [Verse - Pusha T] Big city rolla, pind diamond rose gold Like strawberry Quik was spilled on his shoulder EGHCK! all soldier, top shots out chrome Glocks Keep gun coupled, ghetto version of Noah He will make your soul float, f** wit the next man In this hand I got the tool for making ghosts Beats to the corner, Ben Wallace in the post I send ya to the place where the coroners ya host EGHCK! Not living, I'd rather be choking off fumes in someones kitchen Counting money, but these n***as won't keep their distance So I let these nines a**ist them See my - presence covers the block like a duvet Haters trying to guess what you weigh Pusha gives a f** what you say I make corners tumble like Cirque du Soleil [Chorus] [Outro - Pusha T] Uh yeah, Track Masters Shakedown, Red Cafe wit the Clipse Uh uh, yeah, we them hitmen for hire