[Intro]
The walls come tumbling down
[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
It's The Machine, I don't know what you thought
This beat so hard, I ain't know where to start
One of the illest when it come to throwing a dart
The Yeezy-seven-fifties glow in the dark
Three-fifty-seven missiles blow you apart
Put a bullet hole in your heart
Goons lurking, they lay in your bushes
Your face'll get pushed in when you put your rover in park
Thinking back when I sold blow in the park
Can't wait till bitches see this rolley I bought
Flood the bezel with all kind of stones
Out in them Cali hills, smoking on the finest grown (smoking)
Verse of the year shit, every time I jot a poem
'Cause I'm ten times iller than these Maricon's
Young boy caught a couple cases
He upstate in general population cutting faces
Pull up the [?] and pop a couple Ace's
And when I leave, I bet I pull off in a fucking space ship
Just to see their fucking faces
Nothing basic, five hundred for my fucking Asics
You know the fucking fave shits
I don't do the fucking fake shit (Talk to em)
Look, my plug is a fucking racist
He dealing whites only, prices no fluctuation
Put the blender in the batter like it's fucking cake mix
Bars sharp like the cutlery I cut my steak with
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
[Verse 2: Aaron Cooks (Stove God Cook$) ]
I rubber-banded infinity bundles
Bad Boys' stamp, we Biggie and Puffed them
Riddle me something
If I have my young boy snatch your soul on Thursday
I promise by Saturday, boy it'll be nothing
Niggas be fronting, crying wolf
You ain't got to sell me Minnesota tickets, that shit is redundant
Cut the plastic and watch it split like Frankie Lymon
(You know the feds tap your line in silence and listen)
I threw a concert in the kitchen
Five niggas dancing that powder like New Edition
The seventh level tap dancin' on the stove
She want a pill, she want a role, she want roses
I want a Rolls, I'm on a roll in this bitch
You're now fucking with the gold of this shit
Thirty-six melted down and remolded the bitch
Man, fuck it!
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
[Verse 3: Busta Rhymes]
These niggas that thought they was nice with the pot
Bitch, I was nastier
Number one coke pitcher, C.C. Sabathia
So relaxing when I cooked up shit and kept the boy calm
Stirred the pot with magical spasms in my forearm
Y'all niggas faking, just admit it
I'm so nice with the cheffing and I wore aprons when I did it
Look, dealing with Reganomics era
There was never no mistakin' how I [?]
Used to run up in a nigga gate
They hated when I cripped on fiends and went off with the plate
We chopped the coke on and then licked it (damn!)
With the scrape in the shavings like begging for golden tickets
Saliva from their tongue make coke residue turn to liquid
We count grown men money, fuck all the noise about?
I let it spin on this bread, bring all the toys out
Got niggas mining in mountains, dug all soil out
Y'all niggas still sell weed, I went the oil route
[?] something you should avoid best you exit
Fuck niggas I've watched in the opioid epedemic (Shit)
[?] mixture bars [?] you best expect it
Check it, my creatures raw with people when I send a message (Get em!)
Washed bottles [?] Irish boys, check my method
I problem solve [?] backwards like your boy dyslexic
No exit for you niggas and it's getting cold
While I send a bitches to vacuum your paper from a stripper pole (Got em!)
Stay in your lane, nigga
While I switch lanes on em
Go ahead and [?] I switch planes on em
You know I let it blow the flame on em
Beautifully do this shit again and switch the game on em