[Intro: The Bad Seed and Pumpkinhead]
The Bad Seed: No doubt. So what's what?
Pumpkinhead: What’s the deal?
The Bad Seed: Know’m saying? Niggas is eye-spooning
Pumpkinhead: Spit
The Bad Seed: Niggas got a lot of problems right now
Pumpkinhead: They gel
The Bad Seed: But let me tell you something
Pumpkinhead: What’s up?
The Bad Seed: ’98 got gunned down with two 9s
Pumpkinhead: Uh huh. Yeah
The Bad Seed: Two 9s. I’m glad that nigga laying on his back. I’m glad that nigga dead
Pumpkinhead: Yeah
The Bad Seed: So it’s official now. This that official shit right here
Pumpkinhead: Alright. No doubt
The Bad Seed: Makin’ motherfucking Records
Pumpkinhead: About to get rowdy up in here
The Bad Seed: We ‘bout to put y’all heads out like back in the day. What?
Pumpkinhead: Yeah, yeah, see y’all niggas
[Verse 1: The Bad Seed]
Fortunately, my life's much different from flossing 50s
Peace to my sister—drink out the same faucet with me
Born and raised in the ghetto, moved out, still ghetto
Even outside the ghetto, I still feel ghetto
Peace to niggas who steal whips and bust-they-steel ghetto
And all outlaws be on the train, real ghetto
From BK to wherever you at, we’re transmitting
For the real niggas, 730s beating advanced visits
Unorthodox like Sam Fisher. In a fight
My hands glisten golden. Fuck that 2-5 you holding
Smack you double vision like Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen
Them little bitches can't fuck around or fiddle with this
Drank the seven seas and started a war
Put you in the middle of this, whoever is a witness
If they run, hit them with this. A demon could twist
Like vanilla ditches. Break your leg, sell you crutches
You ain't never sold no crack, you gets no dap
You watched your moms smoking dope, eyes closed, open nose
From the story, you probably way out like the poker nose
Got the brother thinking that you wiling out, locino
Ain't work out how you was hoping though. Seen through
Your broken flow. It’s Bad Seed—you ain't know?
See the world through the side of my eyes. I see it
The difference is y'all niggas talk about it while I be it
Label type conceited, big-dick style—never beat it
I dick your girl out, watch her sweat her curls out
Blow her whole world out in a home girl's house
Put the toast to her mouth, tell her, “Take the pearls out
Hand the ice over.” Tie her up when the heist is over
Burn a spliff so I don’t go through the night sober
Party over, pass the L, hand the Bacardi over
Amazing the distance a double-barrel shottie throw ya
[Hook: The Bad Seed, Jean Grae, and Pumpkinhead]
Yo, we spit bars of pure hell
Broke, don’t rock ice with jewels
Skill don't equal what you sell
Life we see through your crew's tales
News flash: pay your dues, your crew's gas
Splash, fuck who's live and who's ass
Yo, we spit bars of pure hell
Yo, we spit bars of pure hell
[Verse 2: Pumpkinhead]
Pistol pop a opera phantom, my style
Iran Contra, jungle guerrilla getting skrilla
Cop-killer, death rap. You want to test, black?
I'll put your head in the ground. Y’all is battery-packed
Giving feminine pounds. Four rounds of loud sounds
Astounds crowds. I press down clouds and make ‘em bow down
I hold the crown with a jewel encrusted in my left wrist
Rhyme death wish, restless. Get the message?
I'm like a poisonous scorpion from the desert
Estimated time of death in five seconds
Fist to the North Star, divine presence. I got the glow
Of the sun. Number one. With a gat tucked in
My cummerbunds, so run. Sipping tequila and rum
Leaving you numb, I got no words. I got gats slapping your gums
I'm just flashing them guns, make you cash in your funds
Give it up or get stuck. I ain't asking you, son
I'm telling you, propelling you when it's time to rock
My rhyme is cocked, blast and pop, make your body do a bunny hop
You can't slow me, ock. I'm too hot
Like the taste y’all crew got. Stab your right arm like a flu shot
You pussy-happy rappers are fronting Big Will's stature
Dancing in videos like it don't matter
Your bones shatter. Kamikaze chrome-clapper
Yo, I got no time for the laughter
Now, I'm ‘bout to close the chapter, nigga
Original Blunted, Dutch Masters riding 'til the day after
We riding 'til the day after, spitting bars of pure hell
[Hook: The Bad Seed, Jean Grae, and Pumpkinhead]
Yo, we spit bars of pure hell
Broke, don’t rock ice with jewels
Skill don't equal what you sell
Life we see through your crew's tales
News flash: pay your dues, your crew's gas
Splash, fuck who's live and who's ass
Yo, we spit bars of pure hell
Yo, we spit bars of pure hell
[Verse 3: Jean Grae]
Jean Grae, nigga, chop your throat, switch your pitch up
I’ll roll bicoastal, take your man, snatch your bitch up
Yakuza's the hit—motherfuckers, this a stick up
That leave niggas bucking the rain with their dick up
“Fuck it” the catch phrase. Robe of cash’ Pais’
Smoke from ashtrays, tote for last days
Choke you with both chains, slice with sharp blades
The fuck, no strings, no exchanging last names
I’ll live a lush life, shot-drinking with the knife
Catch me at the bar sloppy drunk on all nights
Tongue aim, spit precise. Hot game with no dice
Stay chill and plain while these hoes blow for ice
Low-price chicks, vice-dick-gripping chicks. Christ
Gotta call the Lord for 'em, bring the sword for 'em
Slice twice: one through the heart, one through the brain
One strictly for the pleasure, one for pain
Remain on top. I'm like a smacked vein on top
Drug is rhymes—watch the way I'm doing these lines
The crew does crimes, where bloody hands keep mine clean
Play the black, rather be the brains plotting the scheme
Drop your team six feet in the ground. You getting ambushed
Guerrillas attack from Japan to Flatbush
Worldwide, hotter than the drug your man pushed
News flash, nigga, fuck another damn hook