Music Video

Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Method Man
Method Man
Performer
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Clifford Smith
Clifford Smith
Composer
C. Woods
C. Woods
Composer
R. Diggs
R. Diggs
Composer
William Davidson
William Davidson
Composer
M. Davies
M. Davies
Composer
John Goodison
John Goodison
Composer
Anthony Tony Hiller
Anthony Tony Hiller
Composer
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
RZA
RZA
Producer
Jose Reynoso
Jose Reynoso
Recording Engineer
Rich Keller
Rich Keller
Mixing Engineer

Lyrics

Everywhere I turn, I see, your face Yeah, ah, yeah, yo, yo, yeah Yeah, motivate, motivate, from the gate, ya'll Yeah, aiyo, aiyo, aiyo And we the Gods, still tear the whole hood apart Darts that'll splatter through faces, taste niggaz hearts I'm intellectual, plus professional And Walbaums to vegetables Shit is right here, like buyin' fly gear Dare any white man or fan nigga, ran through niggaz Blew shotties in niggaz lobbies, the grand RZA We left, the radio broke, I yoke my vocals, hittin' green smoke Allah Math', show me when the needle broke Numb the whole crowd up, stupid ass Loud fouled up Never knew what they had, now they proud of us Picture my vision, precision, lines jumpin' out of commission Divine got me, nigga, the boss, he pop me Rae, we gotta generate, Lord, I feel the Ditech, the mildew Buy jets and vehicles, steal a little Wrap up the whole rap government Go 'head, ya'll floss wit it, walk wit it, I slap your boss wit it Navy blue, New York fitted, I'm cold frost bitted, two puffs and off wit it You smell the herb, 'fore I lit the spots it's forfeit it Blocks is hot, feel the shot from fourth fit it With no regard for your boulevard, just the shit bag and bullet scar It's the Riddler, riddle me this, riddle me that Who the pretender? And who the door man that let them enter? The Wu-Tang, 36 Cham', what you smokin'? Got you in the game chokin', like Van Gundy coachin' Your street team, bunch of weaklings Don't ever let me catch your reachin' Respect when a grown man is speakin' Shh, keep on sleepin', and just like TLC, I keep on creepin' The five percent of ya'll, keep on teachin' The heat seakin', missile official, that got issues Like Funk Doc got snot tissue, it's hot nikkels Everywhere I turn, I see, your face, but you're never there Shh, shit ain't over Okay, now, same shit, different day, grindin', gettin' paid Self at it, automatic, guns that spit and spray Gotta have it, ass grab it, time to slip and weight Godbody, House your Party, watch the kid 'n' play Ya'll gon' make me go postal, up in this muthafucka house Full of bloodsuckers and hoes that love hustlers Roll that izza, pour me another kizza Bigga, to my nigga, so drunk they can't get up Shotguns through nose, hot ones through foes Let the herb spots run till the cops come, suppose I was just another stick in the mud, on a Saturday Thinkin', how I'mma get the fifth in the club See my crew thick, everyday I fights to prove it We comes undisputed, with batteries included Honey's bee like Meth, I be like what? They want some free cd's, I'm like, "See these, nuts" If ya'll muthafuckas gettin' high tonight, say all right, haha If ya'll muthafuckas gettin' drunk tonight, say all right, haha It be Tical, okay, haha, yeah, yeah, okay It be Tical, okay, haha, yeah
Writer(s): Clifford Smith, Corey Woods, Anthony T. Hiller, John Kenneth Goodison, William Frederick Davidson, Michael Philip Leslie Davies Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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