The Curve Feat. (WestSide Gunn, Conway, Your Old Droog & Termanology) [Prod. By Statik Salektah]
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Lyrics
Ayo, clip so long, it got a curve
Right out my mama back hall, they got served
Still spendin' small heads when we coppin' birds
I got shot, ate them bullets, they was hors d'oeuvres
Doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot)
I only want it if it's wrapped up
The bullets hit his body like a Mack truck (Boom)
The blue money in the safe stacked up
Gold cuffs on the Ferragamo belt, MAC tucked
Ayo, throwin' up red sticks while you niggas starvin'
Bentley hatchback, these bitches say a nigga ballin'
Uh, I throw the yayo on the scale
Rock it and then get rid of it like Mikael
The OG by the bell, nigga, smell
Twelve gold slugs match Chanel (Uh-huh)
Shootouts in broad day, baby
A hundred K, ship from Haiti
If I was you, I'd hate me too
MCs is rhymin' over beats that I used to hear on KTU
Sound of mad Euro, they can't mess with your old friend
I go in, the flow vary, plus the dairy is low end
So sell whatever heat you got, pen ill shit
Honing skills while ordering pinwheels at the pizza spot
Used to run the streets a lot like Manolo
Hollerin' bitches into pictures that he eats the twat
Since local hookups and meat spot
Gettin' buns years before cats was
Commentin' on WorldStar writin' first
Now, every chick on the block thirst for the knock worse
Your beats don't knock? They're the worst
Eatin' good to improve my health
Without fear, I still go out there and prove myself
As if it ever was a question whether Drew can rhyme
Transcriptions gon' be in the Smithsonian and the Guggenheim
North Face, fuck a mink, Northside, tuck your link
Bitch, you better bring me a bottle, 'cause motherfuck a drink
My scale fiend for that hundred grams
Kidnap your lil' queen for that hundred bands
Have her doin' acrobatics in the trunk
Her lil' heart beatboxin' every time we hit a bump
I'm a savage, I'll shoot the fuckin' cabbage off of Trump
In a Bill Clinton shirt, rocks crackin' in the blunt
Too much rust on the hammer, gotta wear gloves
Shaved knuckles and hands, about to kill the plug
Tried to trade in my guns, but I was still in love
I'm young Vito runnin' numbers and stealin' rugs
Half a brick on the table in all dubs
My hands all stiff from the razor and all numb
My clique them Boricua cats that stab thugs
My whole team Cypress Hill fans, we blast mugs, fuck you mean, huh?
"Who me? I cut, cut, cut shit
Cut, cut shit, cut, cut shit
Cut, cut, cut, cut shit
Cut, cut, cut shit"