Kinda Song

[Chorus: Solomon Childs] This the kinda song, that you'll never get a video You'll never hear on daytime radio Never perform on Tyra, or sit on the sofa with Oprah, this the kinda song That after the verse come down, you hear the semis blow Hands open, and heads roll, New York City King Kong This ain't your average song [Solomon Childs] S. Childs I got a love for this street shit So much raw flesh, my hood the meat market Still swagger espionage and freak with it Black tail me nautious, benz whistle down the boulevard like marauders Hand-to-hand cuffed, face deep in the carpet Glizzies in the war, with forest, send flowers to my opponents It's a core and a kick, jumps pumps still on the blimp Will dump one of you faggot ass niggas Live from Staten Island, New York, West Brighton Home of the eighth floor skyscrapers Armageddon, exile to all of you traitors Word to Fly Ty from Fort Green Niggas don't want it, styles are fury, word to blood We love it, when the drama's on, niggas be hiding You can hear wheeze, bullets holes in dodged hair weaves Fuck bullet birds, nigga, you open? Now your body gonna freeze, only God can spare me Style car hard jump suits, feel like '86 Juice Crew With it, so play the tough guy role, and you can get it [Chorus]