Father's Day - Method Man, Redman

I wanna deal, with a bigger asshole

The streets, it’s coming down hard

We got to get our shit together

We always had music, eating off the game

Like you was never gon' run dry, that ain’t no business

(No other game is run so disorganized

Look around you, every hood that’s taking care of business

Is together, dig it, tight?)

I can’t spend my life running away

For what it’s worth, how much dirt can I get done in a day?

I got, clip in the AK (a blunt in the tray)

I’m a beast (Fuck the police) N.W.A.

Ya’ll play this game that the huster’s play

And if you dress in the metrosexual way, then muthafucka, you gay

Ya’ll can save this drama for Kay Slay, like who’s fucking my chick

Or writing books about sucking my dick

Now I don’t give a fuck what they say, cuz once I put on my cool

They see my life and wanna put on my shoes

Top of the world, ma, look at your dude

I dig a chick with an attitude, but I don’t let her cook up my food

It’s like these young niggas hugging the strip

Who got the power to move bricks and buildings never loving the bitch

Stripping with game, ya’ll can guzzle a sip, ain’t nothing change

My niggas is off the chain, and we don’t muzzle the pit, a-ha

«Can I get a suuuuuuuu?»

«Aiyo, this bounce right here for all my Wu-Tang muthafuckas in the house,

tonight»

Soon as I, pick up my pen, I begin my flow

I close my eyes then write rhymes in a Blackout mode

My uzi, weigh over a ton, CD plays over

I do my crime with baking soda, with no odor

Pull out like boat motor streams, crack your shoulder wing

Def Squad decoder ring, psychopath bordering

My dogs shitting on your lawn, while you watering

Pay the fine, audit him and shit on your lawn again

D.O.C.

get it, C.O.D., my hood

P.O.P., nigga, N.J. deep, baby

Jersey state of mind, Method Man, lock 'em in

Ya’ll niggas give a fuck, punk, we the opposite, yup

I hear you gossipping, cuz we on

Just because I rock, don’t mean I’m made of stone

My bones is sturdy, I wake up to get it early

When I bully the streets, my Co-D is Keith Murray

In a hurry, back down, the boy roll with us

This how it sound when them boys is transmitted

Bricks to Staten Island, where babies turn into killers

That’s why my Cadillac bare more arms than caterpillers, let’s get it

«Can I get a suuuuuuuu?»

«Aiyo, this bounce right here for all my Wu-Tang muthafuckas in the house,

tonight»