This Cold World - Lord Tariq

In this cold world, no matter where I go the crowds are all the same

(uh huh huh huh uh huh let em know)

To them I’m just a pebble in the sand, a face… without a name

Ya niggas would never understand the calibur I’m reppin'

Hoes that I’m sexin', cribs that I’ve slept in Cars and stashboxes cash and glocks is kept in Talk how I’m steppin', representin’the weapon

Sex, money and murder — have it, got it and do it Set it, plot it to get it Southeast BX, the Soundview area

Black Lex GS tan leather interior

Moves in Atlanta, meetins’in Alabama

Cold blue steel under the green bandana

I copped raw yay on Broadway from bananas

Hoop fully eqipped wit chips and scanners

Not a motherfuckin’shit?

uh I see through yuor propaganda

Yo partner told me yo’paper proper in Savanna

If life’s a bitch.

I gotta have her

Whateva!

Ain’t shit gonna work unles we all work together.

In this cold world, I struggle to survive and sometimes I would fall

(uh huh huh huh uh huh let em know)

You think someone would lend a helpin hand, they choose to see me crawl

Yo, Yo I had dreams I pitched quarters wit rich portage

Drove miles Kin chow’s, all in the Feds files

Back before niggas wrap my chains and rings

I was teachin New York niggas how to slang them things

Shit check the credits, no mutes and no edits

These walkinletters after the cheddar

blue, red and yellow, it can’t get no better

Fuck banners, bandanas all colors — star-spangled

From militants and gangstas, I covered all angles

Do a hit and twist a story until it’s all tangled

Speak when spoken spoken cuz I undertandthe langua

Yo, yeah, yo, yo Lord Tariq, Soundview ain’t bout it, we of it

Round the world they respect my gangsta, gotta love it Laws made to be broken, I’m tall — I stand above it Stashin keys in a sugar bowl, inside the cupboard

Rap nigga, billion dollar industry to Bronx, I’m of it Step wide, if you steppin wrong — get you stomped or smothered

— got undercovers through the jet, sun covered

— got beat walkers runnin out out the jets like faggots

— got niggas sellin gats

— got gangstas sellin hoes and hash for twenty-foura grand

know your math

— got newborn G’s break a scheme and plot

— got forever thugs — they 40 and still on the block

— got niggas in they jetsuits — gun don’t pop?

I think not, you gotta blast to get what little we got

Got coke crack and crack to smack spots

No main roads, just boondocks and back blocks in…

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yo, yeah, yo Ya niggas feel froggy?

then leap, yeah, you hard wit the heat

But I’m hard to defeat, the Lord-to-the-Riq

Bow down, say a payer, knees to the concrete

Take you off on your feet, have you barf on the street

Don’t even bother to speak

Cuz Bronx here, game’s over

Lows the lazarus?

to get you high, beat ya sober

Tech flame spit wit more range than a Rover

4.8 gats knockin 'jay-hovas'

Ya