Live from Bedford-Stuyverson, the livest one
Representin BK to the fullest
Gats I pull it, b*stards duckin when Big be buckin
Chickenheads be cluckin in my bathroom fukkin
It ain't nuttin, they know Big be handlin
With the Mac in the ac door paneling
Damagin' MC's, oxygen they can't breathe
Mad tricks up the sleeve, wear boxers so my dikk can breathe
Breeze through in the Q-45 by my side, lyrical high
And those that rushes my cluthes get put on crutches
Get smoked like dutches from the master
Hate to blast ya, but I have ta, you see I smoke a lot
Your life is played out like Kwame, and them fukkin polka dots
Who rock the spot? Biggie!
You know how the weed go, unbelievable
[Verse Two:]
B-I-G, G-I-E, AKA, B.I.G.
Get it? Biggie
Also known as the bon appetit
Rappers can't sleep need sleepin Big keep creepin
Bulelts heat-seekin, casualties need treatin
Dumb rappers need teachin
Lesson A - don't fukk with B-I, that's that, oh I, thought he was wack
Oh come come now, why y'all so dumb now
Hunt me or be hunted, I got three hundred and fifty-seven ways
To summer sautee, I'm the winner all day
Lights get dimmer down Biggie's hallway
My forte causes caucausians to say
He sounds demented, car-weed scented
If I said it, I meant it
Bite my tongue for no-one
Call me evil, or unbelievable
[Verse Three:]
Buck shots out the sun roof of Lexus Coupe's
Leave no witnesses, what you think this is
Ain't no amateurs here, I damage and tear
MC's fear me, they too near not to hear me
Clearly, I'm the triple beam dream
One thousand grams of uncut to the gut
It seems fukked up, the way I touched up the grill
Tryin to play gorilla, when you ain't no killer
The gat's by your liver, your upper lip quiver
Get ready to die, tell God I said hi
And throw down some ice, for the nicest MC
nikkaz know the steelo, unbelievable
So many battlefield scars while driven in plush cars
This life as a rap star is nothin without heart
Was born rough and rugged, addressin the mad public
My attitude was, "fukk it," cause motherfukkers love it
To be a soldier, must maintain composure at ease
Though life is complicated, only what you make it to be
Uhh, and my ambitions as a ridah to catch her
while she hot, and horny, go up inside her
Then I spit some game in her ear, "Go to the tele hoe"
Equipped with money and a Benz, cause bytch I'm barely broke
I'm smokin bomb-ass weed feelin crucial
From player to player, the game's tight, the feeling's mutual
From hustlin and prayers, to breakin motherfukkers to pay-up
I got no time for these bytches, cause these hoes tried to play us
I'm on a meal-ticket mission, want a mil', so I'm wishin
Competition got me ripped, on that bullshyt they stressin (boo-yaa!)
I'ma rhyme though, clown hoes like it's manditory
No guts no glory my nikka bytch got the game distorted
Now it's on and it's on because I said so
Can't trust a bytch in the bidness so I got with Death Row
Now these money hungry bytches gettin suspicious
Started plottin and plannin on schemes, to come and trick us
But Thug nikkaz be on point and game tight (yeah)
Me, Syke and Bogart, wrap it up the same night
Got problems then handle it, motherfukkers see me
These nikkaz is jealous cause deep in they heart they wanna be me
Uhh, yeah, and now ya got me right beside ya
Hopin you listen I catch you payin attention
to my amibitions as a ridah
pac is a better lyricist to me then biggie imo
Em didn't change the game like that.
