Six Degrees

[Produced by Frank Dukes] [Verse 1: Ghostface Killah] Dangerous thoughts, mind of a militia Bottles of the 1-50 poured over twistas Broken bones and pillars, Staten Island the illest The biggest land fillers, we creep like caterpillars Love razors, dirty guns with a few - bodies Teach niggas how to walk again from the fucking shotty Sixth sense, six pack, six degrees of separation My evil 3rd eye blinks with no hesitation Dustbags, spoonfuls of sugar help the medi Go down smooth and steady, blowing the green deadly Hen we pops, isolated of hash bricks Needle left stuck in his arm, died of a bad fix We still rock, still dry drawers on the stove Got bread from back in the days, it's growing some mold 2Pac's back, my Glock's fat After the gun smoke, you screaming, where my block at? [Verse 2: Danny Brown] Both hands crusty, need a little lotion That shit don't matter when I mix the color ocean Smoking on potent, goons bagging up in the living room Blocking the flat screen while I'm watching Juice Move your big ass head, my favorite part's on Q and the DJ battle, move or I scratch you 95's from 95's on the coffee table Got them selling dimes still shiny as a nickel Pistol in designer boxers, shoeboxes in bedrooms Some got stacks but most discontinued What's on the menu? Eat a rapper like butternut squash Bark on a nigga with the blade out Run up in your safehouse, how ironic Knock a ring on a nigga like somebody hit Sonic Smoking on chronic feeling like Nostradamic See dying in your future, nigga I promise Vomit colors seven series, TiVo the World Series About to miss the game hitting sevens on the slot machine Dice game, vice daughter, drunk driving in the Charger With a big titty bitch looking like Toccara I don't know what you know But if you know what I know, you better get ghost 'fore I get Ghost I don't know what you know But if you know how I know, you better get ghost 'fore I get... [Verse 3: GFK] Hey what up son, they talking that money on the ground shit U-P-S, Fedex, I deliver the pound shit Raw dog, my hood's like crazy 80's stamp bag Stapleton niggas keep they guns in shit bags Doo-rags and blue and red flags, we keep new tags Skinny or big jeans, niggas they still sag Brag about 2 chains, 4 chains, 6 chains Spread eagle bitches in the crib giving brain Still keep them Clarks crispier than printed money And the champion gear that I rock? Will hide my face for me Mask down, 3-57 and the box of shells Seville dead-arm the kid in the stairwell Stem cell, my niggas is scientific We make crumbs and wax, the T-H-C is prolific Fruitful, my Clan bundle cash like Pablo Bank in the Caimans, stash-houses out in Cabo