Trouble - Lota Nerv, SENSE, Fes Taylor

I love what I’m doin'

I’ve always wanted to say

I started when I was about five years

Sense, man, gettin' it started

Y’all know the flow is retarded

So I’ma keep it goin' regardless

Who the hardest that you ever heard?

Maxin' out on every word

Still got a shotgun flow, mixed with a Dese verse

Gift wrapper or rappers, solo, clapper of clappers

The fresh Dickie suit is under the mattress

«Ain't Nuthin' but a G Thang», we bring surgeries

Gun clap, fall back, white tees, burgundy

These niggaz never heard of me

Still, they try and murder me

Teflon with the chest plate, try hurtin' me

Yo, you’re poop with the groupers, my live niggaz shoot with the shooters

You the type that’ll lose with the losers

A gift to producers, cuz music beats is like cars to the streets

It’s so natural, I flow at you

My little niggaz, man, they nuts like cashews

Cash Rules, we get up in these niggaz like tattoos

Aiyo, don’t ask if I’m down with the Wu

Just cuz I’m from Staten Island, yeah I fuck with Deck, but I rep the 4 and the

Catchin' me Hillside Scramblin', bitches like «Ooh!»

When I hop out the brand new, 645, tan and blue

The middle of winter, look I’ve got a tan too

She popped me with royalty cheques, look at my advance too

The year of the Warriors, every year the shit is gettin' cornier

Throw chicks in front of my shorty, make her hornier

This is a warning to ya, fake-ass rappers actin' like they want wit ya

'Til I blast, should’ve ignored the liquor

You saw the picture, front page, all of my niggaz

Like magazine covers, that’s why the streets love us

Some rest in peace above us, some in the beast and wonder

When they hit the streets who freakin' they baby mother

If we don’t got shit, still know we got each other

Haters try and block me like pucks but this ain’t hockey, fucker!

Welcome to New York, yao, welcome to New York

No disrespect to truth, but homey I am the truth, yup

They call me Lot-a, baby, that black .380 crazy

I’m smokin' like Frasier, you see all these damn haters bitch?

Cuz my watch cost a flick, and my chain cost a brick

And my bitch like Halle and Puffy mixed

You don’t really wanna go there, homeboy, ya too soft

Just like beef, I get it gone just like goof off

I’m in that two-door, draggin' along like two balls

«Murder Was the Case» of the song playin' by Snoop Dogg

Lot-a-Nerv, lot-a-money, lot-a-guns

Lot-a's ass?

Never that, y’all niggaz is fags

Yup, yup, Lot-a's gettin' cash, jealous niggaz envy, yeah

Niggaz wan' pop off, but we all know you fuck with shafts

Lon Dini sip Heini’s, hood labelled me grimy

Goons wanna send out some goons to outline me

That’s why when I step out the buildin' I watch behind me

God guide me, I mean that, greatest to ever rap

Live by my words, seen many people die on the curb

When I heard, mice, we left, man, I felt the ill surge

I guess, that’s why I go in the booth and spill it loose

Never pooly, on spot writer, I scribe fire

Fly attire I rock, heavy pistols I pop

Say a prayer for the peasents when the boss gettin' dropped

No more givin' dap to fake cats, lyrically aren’t the match

My Milli movement like powerful music, like only we do this

Step inside the square, half-cocked and smack stupid

Hear my voice, you can loop it, you’ll be makin' a hit

Send 'em digits through to Two 4 War, now we legit

Dini, LIS, Fes and Baby Pa, we killin' this shit