Conway the Machine - Rex Ryan

[Intro: Excerpt from Paid in Full] A nigga like me man, I love the game, I love the hustle man I be feeling like one of them ball player niggas you know Like Bird, Magic or something Yeah you know a nigga got dough A nigga can leave the league But if I leave… the fans still gone love me man? I get love out here in Harlem, man I done sold coke on these streets, man, hash, weed, heroin As long as niggas is feeling it A nigga like me could hustle it (Griselda, by Fashion Rebels) [Verse 1: Conway] The yak in my cup, the MAC is tucked, what I'm Sticky on Bacdafucup I keep the blinky since Them niggas clapped my truck up The wax had me gagging after one puff I remember bagging jums up Now it's a half of one stuffed in the trunk I stack my funds up Call my savage and have his gun bust Then they find you wrapped in plastic in a dump truck Fuck, only built Diadoras I pull up with a bitch, they thought it was Rita Ora My lil' head buster keep his tool ringing off Got two bodies this summer He said he needs some more Highest grade marijuana Directly from the farmer My enemies is all goners, guess it was karma Trauma, four keys in your baby mom's Elantra Big ass gun like something out of Contra Uh, don't make me spray a nigga Bodies drop if I okay it, nigga You know how I play it, nigga Red October Ye' a nigga Loud moving slow I had to yay it, nigga Still ill when I write it When they don't name me top five I feel slighted Niggas be talking but when I'm around they real quiet You can pray to Jesus all you want You still dying, motherfucker [Verse 2: Westside Gunn] Ayo, this the second coming of Christ Hervé Léger flight jacket, MAC on sight All red Geiger's on, stomp you to death Yeah, you got designers but you rocking it left Need a new plug, prices getting outrageous Shot the thirty off, my nigga wasn't even aiming Pink lemonade Porsche Cayman Low Margiela's looking like a nigga painting Patience a virtue, my youngins'll murk you Ink on the Balmain blazer and the shirt too Shotgun like Peyton The Flygod but the all red Yeezy boot's Satan Eyes out, gloves on weighing Cameras on every light pole, woah! Life's so great they say a nigga sold his soul Praying Rex get us a Super Bowl Bust out the gate The wrist froze from flipping O's [Verse 3: Roc Marciano] You know the rules Let the jewels go smooth They never should have sold you dudes Pro Tools These old dudes let the hoes choose Nigga your shoes is overused I hear the fat lady singing that bitch can hold a tune It's been said I'm god in the flesh, I had to show and prove (show and prove, god) My sneakers is literally from Italy Leaned on the 'caine, thought it was muscular dystrophy A hundred shots your Hilfiger look like a fricassee Who you think you Mr. T? Mitch Green? Or the new Richard Roundtree? (Please) You found in Queens with your shit twisted like it was ground beef A few niggas in town grieved Variegated paint on the i8 Obviously you see that I ate Don't think I'm like these other rap niggas 'cause I ain't I'm pie rated, you got pie in your face Denim in supplies for flyweights You can't buy taste, we looking at you sideways