The Man - Masta Killa, Superb

Fuck y’all niggas talkin about?

My flow, right?

Everytime I did this shit, you niggas got hype yo

Superb’s the next nigga, respect for those before me

In these last days, I’m bringin rap glory

In the streets they hear it, some will remember the lyrics

In my demise, some will remember me in spirit

And I ain’t tryin to die like 'Pac and BIG

And lose my talent to a cultured thug life

I’m a man, seein mindstate of balance

Takes years, fam', like fuck y’all plans

See, we feel like stars, shine like stars

Fuck stars, fuck y’all, we examples

Samples of the hood, thugs from the hood

Young bloods in the hood like, they love the hood

They love the young bitches, nickel bags and guns

In the benches, we see it all off the benches

I learned how to sew seein niggas stitches

And the pain, don’t even ask who 'bout the pain

They killed main, I won’t maintain

By the bus stop, two blocks from the dust spots

Somebody busted shots, they said Sam got got

Damn, he wildin in the back cab rap

That eat swine, fucked his arms and hold nines

That’s Far Rock for you, my block for you

Y’all bitches niggas only live in jail cuz ock know you

When I come home, watch how shots blow you

Through the upholstery, even through your mom’s groceries

Little Sam died three months later

He got set up in the elevator, his cape was regulated

His name faded, he has a son by this bitch he dated

Shorty waited for two dead case kid

He’d get them niggas kids if he couldn’t get them

Then one day out of the blue, BAM!

He heard shit like last names and cars rarin

The Larger Than Life niggas was about to leave here

My people stressed out, we seventy dead and starvin

Son couldn’t walk through my yard past curfew

I rose from an era of terror where it was legal

To tote guns, get red and bust a nigga head

And if pussyhole for dead, left pussyhole for dead

What the fuck was his song?

Never heard of this till niggas started snitchin

I’m still stitchin motherfuckers up

I deal with high sciences, supreme refinements

Till any wicked germ is destoryed and burned

We the Gods without question

Prove what I’m manifestin, all show ways and actions

Hopeful that, lick your cannon

I’m ill when I shoot to peal like Ed O’Bannon

In my head is a thought, perm cocked, off safety

Shots fired, follow blood trails to the stairwell

Faced down, he lay sound, rounds to his crown

Shorty hip flock was midtown, big fly holdin him down

With the dead-arm, siren sounds

Bullets chip brick, precincts followed by the ambulance

Respond to the bomb threat

I picked up his MC tray through the masters

I’m sharper than my carpentry blade

The culture carven into mountains

The faces of my eight classmates

That stomp through the streets of states for Protect Ya Neck tapes

Wu-Tang T-shirts and bandanas

We snatch mics and snuff niggas who jack the rappin