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Correct Philly's Finest Lyrics
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Artists: B
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Beanie Sigel
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Correct Philly's Finest
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Lyrics:
(mixed and scratched sample) P-H-I-L-L-Y, North, West, Southwest South side P-H-I-L-L-Y, Give it to them bitches and niggas who stay fly [Verse 1 - Beanie] You know my flavor Low linen double s gators Jeans ripped on purpose Moure written in cursive Tool shirt with the belt to match Four pound send shots through your Celtics cap You know me, B. Sigel with that lethal spit Fuck around and get your people hit Tek 22 see through clip Niggas know who I creep through with Major niggas, you know, Major Figgas I roll them corners and drop four birds with four words Niggas get the flippin Before niggas get the missin I'm known for that duct tape, rope and pistol whippin Back door, dope and coke from when boat ship in It ain't no tellin what I do for a trunk of crack Told y'all dudes that I'm quick to trunk a cat You know my tools, either the pump or the mac Catch me at your kids school playin Uncle Mac [Verse 2 - Journ] Yo what you think I couldn't shine on you cause your chain glistenin? When they said the name Journalist you wasn't listenin Change the condition of the Range that you sittin in Pull out the pistol in, shoot out your Michelins Leave you in your boy Rover with a poor odor Journ, slim bulldozer with the broad shoulders Week into your tour I'ma call your broad over Before she hit the salon, bustin the whore rollers You tryin to play the fast role Dawg you an ass hole Your chick gave me your c***, cigar and your bath robe Test the circle, beat you till your purple Then have my man search you from your hat to your workboots Fam fuck you and the cats that co signed you Catch you while you on your Ducotti and clothesline you Tryin to cop a spot like the one they shot Tony in Journalist for Doo Wop, the true Mitronian [Bridge - Dutch] P-H-I-L-L-Y Why should we tell y'all why? Where why and how we ride? P-H-I-L-L-Y [Verse 3 - Gillie] A'yo rap cancer, flow sick I flow iller My goal is to move more units than Thriller Its G-D-K slash God damn killer Slash Gillie Da Kid Nigga can I live? Guns keep, never get rid Did a minor bid Only for one week A Thug let his gun speak Real player, never fall in love with a freak My raps is like crack, I distribute to the street O's in the form of flows, China Whyte You say I'm okay, your chick think I'm dynamite She love my flow, she love my clothes When it come to them, I'm like Snoop "I don't love them hoes" See my niggas cop cars, watch flooded with stones Knowin that my voice'll probly sell a million alone Nigga bout robbin Gillie? Un uh, pullin the chrome Aimin straight at your face then I'm killin you holmes [Verse 4 - Dutch] Mf it don't get no realer than that See the jails got my niggas I'm takin em back Serve em out for any smoker who got taste for the crack I'm takin it all, whether its a safe or a pack I'm layin you down, whether its a eight or a mac See I love to bust guns, but I hated the sound And I muzzled em up dawg just to quiet em down Where my West coast niggas at? Shots to the ground Where my East coast niggas at? Safes's and pounds I got, pimp in my walk nigga, pimp in my talk Dawg I bust you niggas first before my players fall I'm already called it quits, don't want it in no more Put the gun to my head, blaow say fuck it all You can't get no women player, they don't want a war You can't sell no cane dawg, you too damn soft Me I sell it all player, from the hard to soft You just a boss player, tryin'a roll with boss [Bridge:] [Verse 5 - Bump] Seems like you don't know how much life is left Till I revolve six in your chest Start at your vest Send you into cardiac arrest Chokin, weezin What gave you the idea that Bump wasn't squeezin Bump ain't packin? Bump ain't holdin? Bump won't put it in your face leave it swolen? Do it for the paper, yeah players hate my hustle Young nigga, chrome 38 I hate to tussle Six hundred platinum skates from the muscle Keep work on the strip, shit I live to the hustle Step my game up to a bird from a bundle Football shit, cook wrong nigga fumble Blocks on the shoes, twelve on the wheel Cris till I spit in the club with the steel I hope you niggas thinkin Bump J won't kill You be dead on arrival Nigga no survival
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