Niggas make a few hits and feel Hov like, man, that’s Beyonce
Must be sipping some Kanye
I feel some type of way, but wait, what that homie Quan say?
See, this that Pearl Harbor, 9/11, Boston Bombing kind of day
So y’all pray
With Phil metaphors I assume you think you Kobe
I’ll be Jeremy Lin after the win
Ask him if he know, I rest my case
Generous with caskets and everybody needs a resting place
Champin’ a mild, just listening thinking wow
They give him a buzz, they rock at the label, they sell ?
I guess you looking down
Well I’m sniping hundred miles away
Don’t bother to look around
Pelvis shots, wait, where they do that?
It’s head shot central, niggas get they shit blew back
I snap and I rant, a certified stamp
Pure leader, too many vans strapped full of vamps
300 Spartans, chest banging, mumbling the champ
East Coast, I’ma say the shit Stack Bundles can’t
Rest in peace, no diss, but I couldn’t let this bet slide
A big l, some Big L in a ’92 Nissan
If I was him I wouldn’t pay me no mind
If he meant what he said, right, then maybe he’ll respond
I need to stop barking, boy, I need a leash
Niggas like, «Jesus! Damn! Sheesh!» before he even speak
It’s suicide, nah, he shouldn’t even leap
This shit will make Gotti turn up, go and squeeze his piece
Mentioning God names can only put you in a Holy spot
But we gon’ let homie rock
I’m Jadakiss step son, Style P lil bruh
I’m that gun that Nas don’t even know he got
New York City right across the water
So the shot that they sending echo loud by the boarder
I’m on call like Batman
Bad to the bone, what, you need to see my CAT scan?
The killers kept it cool, the assassins never speak
If the hitman hungry then the body coming cheap
East Coast!

Видео, клип песни Tsu Surf – Letter To Mr. Lamar

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