Kinda Song - Solomon Childs

This the kinda song, that you’ll never get a video

You’ll never hear on daytime radio

Never perform on Tyra, or sit on the sofa with Oprah, this the kinda song

That after the verse come down, you hear the semis blow

Hands open, and heads roll, New York City King Kong

This ain’t your average song

S. Childs I got a love for this street shit

So much raw flesh, my hood the meat market

Still swagger espionage and freak with it

Black tail me nautious, benz whistle down the boulevard like marauders

Hand-to-hand cuffed, face deep in the carpet

Glizzies in the war, with forest, send flowers to my opponents

It’s a core and a kick, jumps pumps still on the blimp

Will dump one of you faggot ass niggas

Live from Staten Island, New York, West Brighton

Home of the eighth floor skyscrapers

Armageddon, exile to all of you traitors

Word to Fly Ty from Fort Green

Niggas don’t want it, styles are fury, word to blood

We love it, when the drama’s on, niggas be hiding

You can hear wheeze, bullets holes in dodged hair weaves

Fuck bullet birds, nigga, you open?

Now your body gonna freeze, only God can spare me

Style car hard jump suits, feel like '86 Juice Crew

With it, so play the tough guy role, and you can get it