Six Degrees Lyrics - Six Degrees/tone's Rap - Badbadnotgood

Dangerous thoughts, mind of a militia 

Bottles of the 1-50 poured over twistas 

Broken bones and pillars, Staten Island the illest 

The biggest land fillers, we creep like caterpillars 

Love razors, dirty guns with a few dead bodies 

Teach niggas how to walk again from the fucking shotty 

Sixth sense, six pack, six degrees of separation 

My evil 3rd eye blinks with no hesitation 

Dustbags, spoonfuls of sugar help the medi 

Go down smooth and steady, blowing the green deadly 

Hen we pops, isolated of hash bricks 

Needle left stuck in his arm, died of a bad fix 

We still rock, still dry drawers on the stove 

Got bread from back in the days, it's growing some mold 

2Pac's back, my Glock's fat 

After the gun smoke, you screaming, where my block at? 

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Both hands crusty, need a little lotion 

That shit don't matter when I mix the color ocean 

Smoking on potent, goons bagging up in the living room 

Blocking the flat screen while I'm watching Juice 

Move your big ass head, my favorite part's on 

Q and the DJ battle, move or I scratch you 

95, sh-95 on the coffee table 

Got them selling dimes still shiny as a nickel 

Pistol in designer pants, shoeboxes in bedrooms 

Some got stacks but most discontinued 

What's on the menu? Eat a rapper like butternut squash 

Bark on a nigga with the blade out 

Run up in your safehouse, how ironic 

Knock a ring on a nigga like somebody hit Sonic 

Smoking on chronic feeling like Nostradamic 

See dying in your future, nigga I promise 

Vomit colors seven series, TiVo the World Series 

About to miss the game hitting sevens on the slot machine 

Dice game, vice daughter, drunk driving in the Charger 

With a big titty bitch looking like Toccara 

I don't know what you know 

But if you know what I know, you better get ghost 'fore I get Ghost 

I don't know what you know 

But if you know how I know, you better get ghost 'fore I get Ghost 

Photos 

Hey what up son, they talking that money on the ground shit 

U-P-S, Fedex, I deliver the pound shit 

Raw dog, my hood's like crazy 80's stamp bag 

Stapleton niggas keep they guns in strip bags 

Doo-rags and blue and red flags, we keep new tags 

Skinny or big jeans, niggas they still sag 

Brag about 2 chains, 4 chains, 6 chains 

Spread eagle bitches in the crib giving brain 

Still keep them Clarks crispier than printed money 

And the champion gear that I rock? Will hide my face for me 

Mask down, 3-57 and the box of shells 

Seville dead-arm the kid in the stairwell 

Stem cell, my niggas is scientific 

We make crumbs and wax, the T-H-C is prolific 

Fruitful, my Clan bundle cash like Pablo 

Bank in the Caimans, stash-houses out in Cabo