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| Artist: GZA f/ Method Man Album: Liquid Swords Song: Gold Intro: Method Man Aiyyo Shorty, yo that's my word Oh, y'all smellin y'all piss now y'all think y'all gold Yo anybody get caught playin Over here, I'm returnin em that's my word that they be blasted Anything from two-twenty to one-forty, that's mine Y'all need to step the fuck off Y'all niggaz ain't crazy for real Chorus: GZA Yo, the fiends ain't comin fast enough There is no cut that's pure enough I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload Product must be sold to YOU [GZA] I'm deep down in the back streets - in the heart of Medina About to set off something more deep than a misdemeanor Under the subway, waiting for the train to make noise So I can blast a nigga and his boys - for what? He pushed up on the block and made the dope sales drop Like the crashin of Dow Jones stock I had to connect to cross seals, to catch more mil's Than ho-bitches got birth control pills I'm in the park, settin up a deal over blunt fire Bum niggaz sleepin on the bench, they had em wired Peeped my convo, the address of my condo And how I changed a nigga name to John Doe And while we set up camp, we got Vamp Put the stake through his heart, I ripped his fucking fangs apart Snake got smoked on the set like Brandon Lee Blown out the frame, like Pan Am flight 103 He got swung on, his lungs was torn, the kingpin just castled with his rook and lost a pawn A regular on the block, and played look-out For playing predator with a glock, he should have took out Chorus: No neighborhood is rough enough There is no clip that's full enough I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload Product must be sold to YOU.. yo Fiends ain't comin fast enough There is no cut that's pure enough I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload Product must be sold to YOU [GZA] It's mandatory that I supply all my troops with mega firearms Big apes, and spread em out like crops on a farm to get CREAM, sometimes they repaint the scene Like the last episode on gates and other niggaz plant bombs til the smoke from the blast becomes thick and flows through all they knew, he's gun sick His glock clicks, like high-heeled shoes on parquay floors Mad sick, stand on hills and invade wars Filthy foul, shoveling dirt, he's out to hurt For instance, chop off hands, attack worth His idols would lock down airports and extort some import, catchin ten percent of what the fiends snort Up in the ski resorts, up in hills They move keys and had skis making drops on snowmobiles The plan was to expand, catch seven figures, release triggers And live large and bigger than my nigga Who promised his moms a mansion with mad rooms She died, and he still put a hundred grand in her tomb Open wounds, he hid behind closed doors And still organized his crime and drug wars Chorus: Fiends ain't comin fast enough There is no cut that's full enough I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload Product must be sold to YOU No neighborhood is rough enough There is no clips that's full enough I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload Product must be sold to YOU The peers that come is tight enough There is no niggaz that's fuckin up I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload Product must be sold, to YOU |
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