Ill Figures Lyrics - Wu-tang Clan

When I write my lyrics, it's like, it's like 

I want my shit to be phat, I want people to be able to understand 

Yo, Anybody can rhyme, youknowhatimsaying 

But it's what you saying that makes a person know about you 

Knowhatimsaying, you know the type of person you is 

So it's like really, I'm just more of just 

Being a street narrator (aiyo, what up, famo?) 

Reefer lit, love hip hop, the gangstas got me like the broccoli 

Brooklyn baby cooling at a swat meet 

Real niggas wanna meet me, ladies wanna eat me 

Money clean Mercedes claim, baby, beat me 

Love getting dressed up, sweats and techs 

Ride around the hood, good, getting Gotti respect 

Hand is golden, an OG rolling and holding, yo 

Fresh kicks, soft leather, pockets is swollen 

Let my jam hit your tape deck, it's straight up, and made up 

For every real nigga with his gun on him, hate up 

Flying through the city nights, new flights 

Blue ice, hundred thousand in a Nike bag, license 

Drug shop, I'm sorry, Atari in the Ferrari 

Next see the Lex A Shallah, La Tam'pa 

Eating yo, all of us, scamma gangstas 

You know we honor, tip the kangol, cooling in the brown vengos 

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I have never, giving up on a mission 

That's against my honor 

Duke let me warn you, my niggas crip up 

Them young boys'll run up on you, shoot your whip up 

Brooklyn, nigga, beg for you life 

And my Staten Island homeys lay your ass down on Glaciers of Ice 

Sidewalk executives, live the street life consecutive 

We built for this, go for your gun 

My prospective is, another day in the life, of money and drugs 

Big hammers and slugs, can get ugly as fuck 

From the chest to your man Danze, ey 

Staten Island, said what up, yo, ey 

The homey ODB said what up, though, ey 

We got the Chef on deck as if you didn't know 

It's sharp as fuck, Wu, that's what up 

Pack it up, wanna rap, wanna rock, what up? 

Wanna pop, get up, fuck around and get your block hit up 

Bring your team and we'll box 'em up 

Think M.O.P. is not what up 

Photos 

It seems I'm a bit late here 

Don't worry, these men are all gonna die 

See from the side where it slum at, dum at, rum at 

Cognac, combat, contact, contrast 

Crom's packing out like Beyonce back 

She bang out a song like the Fonz back 

Bigger things, bring the slangs, slicker than the sharpest pen 

Nigga here, combat, sweet dick Willie T, Rudy Ray Moore game 

Woodgrain all in the board reigns, before rain flooded 

Like storm drains, boss man, bundling raw 'caine 

Fours bang, neighborhood war games 

Get your weight up, you looking anarexic 

Posted on the block proper with the hammer vested 

Bitch came with empty hands, that's the hand she left with 

Thirsty ass with the water and it sounded desperate 

Break a white an hour, based it forty grand invested 

Live within the third rail, you know the man electric 

Shit was like the third world, until I handle metrics, that next shit