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letra de medina style - cella dwellas

cella dwellas – “medina style”
[emcee(s): phantasm and u.g.]
[producer(s): dj megahurtz]

[verse 1: phantasm]
i don’t like to write about the bad times and the bad
crimes or how i stuck up or martyr dimes
already stressed, dealing with the n-ggas that’s fake
the industry snakes and on the streets is the jakes
half of y’all talking how much you keep it real
the other half of y’all don’t even got deals
already that rah-rah you’re screaming? already lived it
saw the realm side of hip hop, we tried to give it
never did the court cases, phone traces, car chases
or been incarcerated like scarfaces—huh!
i remember those days, that’s how i was living
i did more robbings that givings, but hey
now i freak megahurtz beats (beats), 150
‘cause i don’t eat (eat), still ain’t nothing sweet (sweet)
you’re name ain’t sanford and you ain’t got no sons
don’t play me for grady. my trigger finger benches 380
no need for jaw-tapping or scr-pping
i’m from brooklyn, so i’m original gun-clapping

[verse 2: u.g.]
i get
mad dramatic, jam like automatics when i’m speaking (true)
icepicks and razors hit your face and leave you leaking—huh!
u.g., my mood swings like the dodgers
i’ll push your wig back, hit my crib, and change my sh-t like mister rogers (whoo!)
my sk!lls bust off like a 9 m & m
when it hits your skin, burns like a weed stem—check it!
champagne, money, and tecs (tecs), a lex (lex)
on my wrist is a crisp, blue-faced rolex (uh huh)
with diamonds, assorted timbs, momo rims
sipping gin straight, take your fl!cks holding two trey-eights (yeah)
nickel-plated, hated by po-po, cop dough like
a bank teller, and old gold makes my p-ss yeller

[hook: u.g. and (phantasm)]
what, what?!? who want it? it’s time to get dough
(time to blow, rock a show, bag a ho). yeah
‘cause n-ggas know our steelo on the low for real
(blast steel. yo, son, what’s the deal?)

[verse 3: phantasm]
cd’s the newest and illest breed of emcees
trying to get this crib, a land, and bent keys. when i’m
done with this, get my son in this, but, for now, i’m running this
the dangerous, the ruggedness from the flatbush abyss
i down 151 bacardi dark, shoot threes
in any park, bk is the mark, church ave
i represent, shooting cee-lo on the corner
sipping corona. the only g-ye i want is nona—huh!
i light your crib up like my name was ge. lyri-
-cally, not many can see me or u.g. remember
we got the rhymes that you wanna listen ta. once it’s
in your deck, leave it in like conditioner. i’m on a
mission ta make you understand my plan and get
four, five, six grand doing shows in j-pan

[verse 4: u.g.]
yo, check
this (what?). reckless kids run rampant with guns
but i run rampant for funds, wanting jewels by the tons
son (yeah). it’s been real since nine months. pull out
my frame, step on ‘em, and i’ll blow you with my fronts, you dig?
notorious like b.i.g., push back
a wig, drove a ac’ vig’ that was stolen one
day, gunplay similar to jesse james (yeah)
could set the flames (uh huh) while i bag a notre dame. i used to
hop the trains, now i rock italian chains, clothes
with names of fashion, on my boots, blasting
new guns with funds like i hit the lottery, fl!cks
kicks, chicks, shape like pottery, i’m on-point
kid, the anointed rapper will amaze ya
i’m iller, i’ll bless the mic then be ghost like face k!llah

- cella dwellas

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