Murder He Wrote
Rome Streetz, Conway the Machine, Trillmatic
Trillmatic, what up?
Look
Street shit, we still at it (huh?)
Trillmatic (what up?)
I peel cabbage when I dump steel at it (brrt)
Huh, if I want it, trust me, I will have it
Told you I'm the Machine, fuck how you feel faggot
Yeah, pack cookies in the dutch (smokin')
Every city I go, I got pussy I can fuck (what up, baby?)
Trust, you don't wanna push me, I am nuts
Get to emptying this chopper, make you pussy niggas duck (brrt)
Stk, I ain't come for the steak
Glass of cold grapes, two lobster tails on my plate
(I'm eating good, nigga) yeah
A hundred dollar tip (uh-huh)
Machine gun that ho like a hundred in the clip
(What's poppin', nigga?)
I hope one of you pussy niggas tempt me (uh-huh)
I'm squeezing this bitch 'til it's empty
Masked up, nobody knew what I did
You just snapped, pack blew off your head
It's the Machine, motherfucker
Ayy yo, check
No script, these hoes watch me, guess my life is like a movie
I was living trife', now I'm with your wife in the jacuzzi
Got a bunch of dead slave masters folded in my Subi's
Thirty black talons loaded in the Uzi, bold and unruly
Murder he wrote on a loose leaf
Had hoes loose off the blow and the Lucy, butt-naked playing "Juicy" (uh-huh)
It was all a dream, over the digital, not a triple-beam
The work is crystalline, turned it to cash now I'm sitting clean (Word)
Feasting on three hundred dollar plates, you cooking Sizzlean
Shit these niggas drop is a disgraqce, I make 'em kiss the ring (it's trash)
Shoot the crown off the wig of the king (brrap, brrap)
And let my little niggas dig through his pockets and flee the scene
Where I'm from death is always 'round the corner if your skin black (uh-huh)
I went from jail cells to big stacks now that I sling raps
Now we lit, nigga, fuck outta here
Written by: Desmond Price, Jerome Allen, Tom AmsteadLyrics © Universal Music Publishing GroupLyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind
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