M.A.R.C.Y.

[Memphis Bleek] (DJ Clue) (Word up!) Uhh.. I've become accustomed to goin through customs Pound in my pocket hollerin "FUCK THEM!" (What!?) I'm livin that life that you only talk about I'm fuckin them hoes that you only thought about I spend that money but you won't spend about As much that I made off my last single out Whatchu think of that? Niggas, y'all know That I kill niggas slow when I live for this dough (Holla!) Got labels sick, I know they hate that I'm makin they artists push them dates back (C'mon!) I don't need tattoos to prove I pack tools Go 'head and act fool and become dog food Memph Man, uh-huh, yeah that's me Same nigga that don't give a "basically" And I'm still smokin, it be like that Ya blunt went out, nigga relight that [Chorus: Memphis Bleek] I'm from M.A.R.C.Y B.K. style, see Bleek how? I'm from M.A.R.C.Y B.K. style, see Geda how? [Chorus] [Geda K] (DJ Clue) Yeah.. I'm finally put in the game, right where I should be And the gat laid right where it should be (Ha ha!) Violate, you be put where you should be Have your family and friends screamin "How could he?" Walk the streets with a body on his back Ride around in a V with the shottie in the back (Uh-huh) And for y'all that swear, that I front for rep Only thing that I front is hoes and coke and clips of tef With a co-d, that's a, menace to the people Yeah we sold D and made a livin off of people (Yeah!) Ghetto, corrupted us, and we taught ourselves How to add and scale plus bag and sell And how to, aim and shoot And I got brain when the wrist locked Wherever the dot spot leave the tape You keep actin like you can't die in a blaze And I let sixteen of 'em dive in your wake [Chorus] - repeat 2X [DJ Clue over Chorus] New shit! Memphis Bleek! Geda! Marcy! Fresh out! (?) Tata! B.I.! [Memphis Bleek] (DJ Clue) Picture me rollin in that five hundred Benz I got no love for you niggas it ain't no need to be friends (Clue!) I give a fuck 'bout 'em, no need to talk 'bout 'em He act bout it, I let the fo'-fo' pound 'em The co-d's, nigga no statements Just shots, empty shell casings No prints, V's no tint Phone, Sprint, Six, no chips nigga R-O yeah M-A Realist hood and clique nigga, comprende? You bitch niggas know I'm focused right? You still catch M-E-M loc'n right? (Ha ha!) In the black V, wit the gat on my lap Shovel in the trunk, go 'head nigga, front This M dot E-M-P-H-I-S Bleek Coppin out to a one to three, you bitch nigga! [Chorus] - repeat 2X [DJ Clue over Chorus] Fat shout! Cuttino Mobley! Steve Francis! Houston Rockets! My nigga Chris Childs! LaVar Postell! New York Knicks! Word up! [DJ Clue] DJ Clue! Desert Storm! Roc-a-Fella! The Professional Part 2! Ha ha!