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Correct Rules We Live By (Feat. Fat Joe And Armageddon) Lyrics
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Lord Finesse
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Correct Rules We Live By (Feat. Fat Joe And Armageddon)
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F/ Armageaddon, Fat Joe * 2003 Fat Beats Records version [ Fat Joe ] What What Yeah Diggin' In The Crates Terror Squad We the best at this Everybody stealin our style, stealin our flows Stealin our beats Feedin off of us All these fake rappers in the rap game So-called rappers What [ CHORUS: Armageaddon (2X) ] Yo, real niggas use what they pull out, hold up, start a shoot out Black out, cool out, then they back out Daily routine, stompin fiends in they spleen, no shorts Ill like Chinatown gangsters, extort the sea port [ VERSE 1: Armageaddon ] Aluminum-crush a coco, rockin stolen gold of Africa Ill, dressed to kill, a Navy massacre United Nations-sized slinky Benz, lookin like ambassadors King off a roundtable, Glock 9 as calibers Kidnap a senator, free the Rikers Islanders Tell a Sicilian he got nigga in his blood, no jive Terror Squad possessed by the souls of dead Comanche tribes Scalp em, scrape em and rape em, repossess Plymouth Rock Mnage trois with gogo bitches twice to split on my cock Fire spark the hydro, burn a bush without the pyro Blessed be the only saint I know exist in the Bible What if God was one of us, downin mo' liqor and dust A stranger sellin drugs duckin TNT bust Comin through like an army of nigga rocker gorilla men Terror Squad legacy live the next millennium Iron curtain-styled tanks, gruesome shit that make mother faint That ain't no color paint, ( ? ) New York electrocute, Mississippi don't shoot Tie his neck to a maple, hang him, strange fruit [ CHORUS ] [ VERSE 2: Lord Finesse ] I be the all eye seeing (no doubt) supreme being Nigga geein, playin celo, rollin demons Forever schemin, I make it hot like Phoenix A street genius, never thinks with his penis I be the meanest, authentic, afrocentric In it to win it, I don't talk it, I represent it The sky's the limit, from the beginning to the ending Can't knock the hustle especially when the next man's winnin If money makes the world go round I have it spinnin Chillin in linen, keepin it real, no pretendin Never-endin, mind-bendin, stay aimin I don't player-hate, I simply make others just quit playin Know what I'm sayin, I'm out to get stacks I hit chicks with the dick that make dykes wanna switch back Can you dig that, you got game, money, lounge I pull bitches like cars (How's that?) No money down [ CHORUS ] [ VERSE 3: Fat Joe ] You better slide or catch this homicide Ain't no match for Joey Crack, I'm blowin backs out the other side Brothers died and mothers cried at wakes These are the breaks, Kurtis-Blow your head off like jake So take heed and read between the lines Ain't no geein mines, player-haters never wanna see me shine Up in the Range or in the Lex Coupe Rockin a fresh suit with dress shoes on my way to let's booze Let's choose what life you rather live On the streets stabbin kids or livin mad sweet in lavish cribs Fix marriages for my kids, six carats on my whiz Exotic talkin parrots on my wrist It ain't shit but sex, money and drugs True thugs bust slugs and pack bodies and bust What the fuck, Joey Crack twist your cap back Leave your heart rate flat once Terror Squad attacks [ CHORUS ]
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