Now Y Lyrics - Singles - La The Darkman

Yeah, yeah, yo, yo 

Yeah, yeah, yo, trapacanti, yo 

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

Get your brain tapped by forty-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 

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My style, top secret like the 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' on linx, costin' 'bout ten G's 

N.Y.C., where killas bust cops at me 

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 

New York ain't fuckin' playas, we love gun sprayers 

Movin' crack from 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 

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And don't think it can't happen 'cuz you on the TV 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 food stamps 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' niggaz 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 each other, who gon' shine? 

We losin' our mind, this rap shit is turnin' into crime 

Nowadays soft niggaz bust techs and nines 

So, what?