made you look remix
I need it from the top, ah!
This is history baby
Commissioner Steve Stoute
Lenny, ha!
God's Son, what up?
D-Block, what up?
Bravehearts, what up?
Yo ain't nothing but trouble, God, when I kick in the door
With D-Block, Bravehearts and the Double R
Don't make me let the machine off
This is methadone music that you can lean off
"Made You Look," the remix, with me up on it
I copped your shit, now I break weed up on it
And everything is real I see
Like my niggas that been home but they only got a jail ID
I helped the game, it ain't help me
I'm top five, dead or alive, and that's just off one LP
And I still buzz, they feel cuz
'Cause they know the flow's ill just like Will was
I'm just tryna make sure that my sons wealthy
Out of shape, but I make sure that my guns healthy
I'm a ape, you can't stand 'Kiss, comin through the hood
In a Aston Vanquish, the color of dandruff
They said we jumped him, I just let the gun snuff him
Copped P then turboed soon as they uncuff him
This goes out to all of your mans
Why put you in the verse when I can put you in a coroner van?
D-Block!
They shooting! Ah, made you look
You a slave to a page in my rhyme book
Gettin big money, playboy your time's up
Where them gangsters? Where them dimes at?
I'm from the school of hard knocks, sneak peeks and low blows
Where Xs mark spots and kitchens mark Os
Where love's gon' getcha and hate is gon' snitch ya
And fingers squeeze triggers like boa constrictors
It's the, Mr. Luda, Jada and Nas
And our bullets give you a deep-tissue massage
So hear a song and dance while I make these ends
You never stood half a chance like Siamese Twins (AH!)
They shooting! Look in the barrel!
Then he made the front page of the Miami Herald
Or Chi. Tribune, nozzles with silent doom
We in that A-Town Journal as violent goons
You should print my information, quote my rhymes
And keep me in between these New York and L.A. Times
I was the victim of society, it's 'Cris the Menace
With mo' shit out on the streets than evicted tenants, whoa!
They shooting! Ah, made you look
You a slave to a page in my rhyme book
Gettin big money, playboy your time's up
Where them gangsters? Where them dimes at?
Jungle! Wiz! Nashawn!
We got 'em scared, look!
We got 'em scared, they runnin'!
Yo, I grasp the ratchet, the blinker, the biscuit, the burner
The heat, the toaster, the twister, you meetin your owner
The banger, the hammer, the flamers I aim at the cannons
And can ya, manhandlin ya, you'll be famous, I'll cancel you
And cut, that's the end of your movie
Pretendin you actin like you and your mens'll come shoot me
My tennis shoes Gucci, old school, pea-soup green
Jean Lee suit on, Veuve Clicquot champagne
Friday the 13th my CD drop
I rhyme to more Base than EZ Rock, I'm Jason, call up P.D
Watch hem Bravehearts, Jungle and Wiz and Nashawn
Ill Will rasta Lake, never revealin his face on
TV or pictures or even them niggas
Sorry that I made you wait long, glad them fakes gone
We shooting! Squeezing them triggers with Luda beside me
Me and 'Kiss get Luniz of weed, set to Styles P
Tell him hold his head, God's Son got him we made y'all look
From San Quentin to Rikers Island to Green, Sing Sing...