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letra de b-boy gangsta - chino xl

dumb rappers need teaching, lesson a
i started in the park
two turntables and a microphone makin it art
to keep my money strong
what needs to be done, carry a mic and a gun
yo, yo, yo, i’m all hip hop n-gg- but all thug
slap the sh-t out of venus for thinking its all love
a b-boy and a gangster both officially now
have your body full of holes like they spots on a cow
since i was a child ive felt that i was fallin, father please forgive me
jailed for robbing an organ donor for his kidney
too angry, kicked out of anger management cl-ss
as i reduce once thought of invincible armies to ashes
i was the type of kid had spray paint can in one hand
nickel plated 380
thats when the trouble come, when broke had to hussle some
they brought my mum for questioning, she like “not my son”
i’m the man dog, done songs with big l and rza
dangerous as hemophiliacs running with a scissor
sit back sip your liqour you quicker than the third millenium
keep my pockets weight up, guns blasting you to oblivion
blame it on the world we’re living in for c-ke distributing
married to this music, bout to have my third kid with it
doctors delivered it to conquer any lyricists
it’s my turn but i made it like texas hating the dixie chicks
there ain’t enough math invented to count ways i ain’t feeling you
but i show you love every day by not killing you
over an instrumental you
harder to understand than lennox lewis talking in an interview
i got inditements you dont wanna be me
i spit sick youll probably catch sars of my cd
syllable sorcery still street, any beat getting laced
left my mark on the game like that mole in the middle of enrique iglesias face
from carrying crates for afrika bambaata zulu nation ’88
i penetrated the game at a crazy rate
from the place of whitneys houstons drug suppliers
old new jersey made me great
of course the labels made me wait i never hyperventilate
cos they holding no weight like they hustle in outta sp-ce
nelly dissing krs1? we gotta stop him
whats next, beyonce battling rakim?
yo, i’m a b-boy but i wild on n-gg-s thats what they pay me for
but i ain’t no backpack cat wearing jansport
your mans taught you it was silly to try me
sh-t won’t be pretty like india irie
me dying, ive got nothing to lose
put me in heaven with barry white being on the hook singing to sell your cruise
over a beat or two jam master jay produced
your crew had me outnumbered what the f-ck was they excuse?
now i’m feeling a mess, imprisoned by my own success
fame done killed more celebrities than any bullets through holes in stess
in one moment or less for my scrill you kill
but hiphops like sway and tech flexing felly fell
emcees studied me well, but still
give me credit like when i tell the world i studied kool g rap and ll
forrest whittaker
naming his first son denzel
cos people hear me all over your records like i’m
pharrell
xl blowing up is probable, yet philosophical
ashanti
shaved her sideburns so anything is possible
b-boys and gangstas throw ya hands in the air
i’m from jerz, the home of “i couldve swore i parked my car right here”

- chino xl

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