Harlem Streets

[Produced by Ty-Tracks] [Verse 1] We tie dynamite to the rhino type Wino might find yo' sight Sell the information for a dime of white, that China-China I'm behind the diner, selling marijuana to a minor-minor Elder fella; looking for that shine? I'll shine ya My mind designa. You a dime? I'll dine ya Madonna momma, body bottled, you're fine. I'm finer Time to climb her, climb behind vagina Then I hymen-grind her 'til her mom remind her Diamonds blind her; vision's gone, kiss her palm Turn her arm, lift her arm, notice that her wrists is wrong "Gotta get it right ma, we gon' get along" Said "how?" "don't trip," but, yo, the trick is wrong First visi-on, day job tick-a-tron Nighttime, Mr. Mom. Bootleg Cris and Don Brother Chris and Don, and their sister Carm They sell yey, you'll say "yay, this shit's the bomb" I'mma hit my man, tell 'em you my pick upon The rest, so yes, you'll be blessed to hit the intercom You know, kiss his mom. She gave him wisdom charm And their father come from a long list of dons And I get it cheaper, I cop bricks like sneakers And if the cops come, I just hit amnesia But I give you an earful, it's tearful Told my mother I hustle and she said "be careful" [Hook] Why I feel like I'm losing weight? Why I ain't got no money if I'm moving weight? My life's based upon what I'mma do this year Cop a boat, cop a Lear Now the army suit's cute with my chocolate Airs You ain't gotta stare, go cop a pair Still the scrutiny, nothing they can do to me I made sure my mother and girl is smothered in pearls When a nigga under the world [Verse 2] Everybody like, "Cam got the recipe now!" Not them 3 girls I got to be Destiny's Child Specially equities, reckon we smile In the fear, tech the tech and use the tech that we wile Detective deceptive, receptive of fouls Hectic, Heckler & Koch Helicopters on the set of my sales Nah, I ain't gonna be embedded in jail Talking to a cellmate in a bed in a jail, dog I broke bread with the whale, fled from some seals And the house, I was the head of the hills, shit You get a dumb ho, and get dumb-happy Go to the gun show, get gun-happy Stuck, killed, mugged, milled Tone, flint, sticks, bo, Chub's milk Pucci baba, but I got the hardest shells We the Midwest gun cartel nigga Ya, we'll just clap up your brains, snatch up your chains See dog? Rap is my aim But I'm a hustler, in my heart, trapped is the game Attached to my frame, tapped to my brain, the fact still remains: It wasn't rap, it was crack that got the racks on the Range Look dog, don't be asking for Dame, see Playboy, I don't own that man And anyway, homeboy, you a grown-ass man, shit And when I rap it ain't no punchline I be on the highway dirty, crunch time No timeouts homeboy, just one time If they find that stash box just one time Shit, they'll put the dogs in the truck Side of the road, holding you up, cold as fuck They want that button, lunge it and push it Soon as they lunge it and push it, I run in the bushes That's how I play mine, jump over the grapevine Take my chances one-on-one with the K9 Stealing a clip for anyone squealing they lips Fuck y'all if y'all ain't feeling the Dips