Street Flavor - Cappadonna, Rush Ratchet, Cappadonna & Rush Ratchet

Betcha jump up on my dick now, shit is bonkers…

You fucking idiot

Wicker man, trigger man, post on top of the hill

Get a Gram', flip a grand, try and hop through a mill

If I blew the steele, concealed at the top of my sweats

I pop you for real, aim for the top of your chest

Fuck the respect, power’s all I need today

In that LC Lex so I can speed away, you know?

I don’t think so, I didn’t expect you to

You got powers, plus cops posted next to you

Listen to the cash flow, rap flow like Fidel

Castro, asshole, dude you get in the shell

Oooh, we sippin' the L, cee-lo, blowin' sticky-sticky

Navigator posted, sittin' high on them mickey-mickeys

Watch 'em drop fifty in yo city, from that icky-icky

Calico, strip 'em shells through your whole residential

See only presidents be blowin' spliffy like a rasta wit me

That chopper with me, pop a copper just for actin' iffy

Leave 'em stank and pissy, Cali pearl handle murder murder

Burn by my sermon, I’mma hurt 'em when I turn it on 'em

Steady serving on 'em, swervin' 'on 'em in that fishy-fishy

V12, Lex drop, blow ya top, tippy-tippy

I destroy mics quick, leave parties crippled

Get down on the track, just sweat and ripple

Start commotion when I rap, my steeze’ll get you

Only if you hood for real, my steeze hit you

Butterfly fuck niggas, bees’ll sting you

Niggas that sling dope, I hope the d’s don’t get you

Stay on the low, kid, breeze with the pistol

For all my real niggas get g’s with the pistol

Hold your hood down, nigga, cheese is the issue

Raise your guns up, nigga, squeeze and let loose

Ready quickly niggas know I gets busy

Made 'em lifty-lifty off the ground

When the pound hit, at a miscy muffler’s rap

It ain’t no sound bitch, now remy marty, marty crown

With the light Bacardi, now I wanna fight somebody

Nigga, pass the shotty-shotty, twizzy twelve gauge

Mossberg with the stocks off, shoot ya block off

With the mack when I pop off, fuck the drop off

Take the paper straight to papi papi

I’ve been cookin' cutter that’s pitching on your blocky blocky

Snitches try to stop me, sending word to the copy copy

But I’m never sloppy, so I beat it, nigga watch me, watch me

Like a big screen, fifty inches in the living room

Just consider moves, that I make, type forbidden dude

Niggas tend to do, what they see, like a baby baby

Sonny acting shady with three eighties on they lady lady

Maybe they won’t play from a distance, lizzy long range

This is strong game, like Gotti tephlon frame

You stepped on chains, just respected to the Pocono’s

Cappa smoking bones, of that sticky-icky malibu

Bizzy green as a moon, no, we gon' throw it up

Put it in the air, Don pizzy P, Mo' it up

Yeah, nigga, Street Flavor

4−4-3−3-0−6-9−7-6−2, nigga, we do what we gotta do

Ratchet Rush, nigga Don Don, what’s up

Goon Squad Hooligan…