Now Y - La the Darkman

Yeah.

Yeah.

Yo.

Yo

Yo.

Trapacanti.

Yo

When I walk these streets, like bamboo, I’m strapped

Get your brain tapped by fourty-four caliber gats

It ain’t like that, cats gotta learn to relax

If I let the gun clap, you have no wish, you’re on your ass

If you see at cat without his vest hangin by his neck

Then La done it, I’m tryin to see this benz six-hundred

With a fly bitch, a gat and cognac gettin blunted

Readin the tablet of my money from the kids that I fronted

You don’t want it, shootin slugs outta an armored green lex

]From four pounds that fuck you up like a plane wreck

Don’t gamble with a tech, car is quicker than the eye

My style, top secret like a Bosnian spy

Now Y, New York have you laced in chalk

The South Bronx, what you thought when we let are guns talk?

It’s bloodsport, the Darkman call it like he sees

Been in buildings, doin eighty in a black m3

Medallion swingin a linx, costin bount ten g’s

N.Y.C., where killas bust cops at me

New York ain’t fuckin playas, we live gun sprayers

Movin crack frm the streets of Manhatt' to the Himalayans

Amadeus, why these Cali craps tryin to front?

Ass gotta cut ropes, tryin to bungee jump

Tight cunt, all white planes roll, we night creepers

In bubble coats, eight hundred beapers, force one sneakers

I stay fly, holdin it down for my block

What up ock?

You could get a four-four shot

And don’t think it can’t happen cuz you on the T.V. rappin

I sneakin from B.X., B.K.

and the Staten

Manhatten and Queens jookin kids for rings

New York, New York, the big city of dreams

Some rap legends were put in jail, you thought we failed

Now I’m back like LL, when he was rockin the bells

Takin rap back to the days of foodstamps and tramps

Pit stains in the stair case and vise-grip clamps

Kid, I’m amped, cats try to diss the originators

In Land Cruisers, on Timbs, subways and elevators

Holdin steel, you frontin niggas better get real

I’m gettin money, blow my nose with a hundred dollar bill

How you feel?

And fuck where you at, it’s where you from

To that cats, that’s eighty-five: blind, deaf and dumb

Run and get your gun, I come in the name of Allah

To my people, the Inglewood family swine, power refined

You can’t see, we runnin outta time

If the east and west kill eachother, who gon' shine?

We losin our mind, the rap shit is turnin into crime

Nowadays soft niggas bust techs and nines

So, what?