Kick in the door lyrics Christopher E Martin / Jay Hawkins / Christopher Wallace / Christopher Martin

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Your reign on the top was short like leprechauns
As I crush so-called willies, thugs, and rapper-dons
Get in that ass, quick fast, like ramadan
Its that rap phenomenon Don-Dadda, fuck Poppa
You got ta, call me, Francis M.H. White
Intake light tokes, tote iron
Was told in shootouts, stay low, and keep firin’
Keep extra clips for extra shit
Who’s next to flip, on that cat with that grip on rap
The mo shady, (Tell em!) Frankie baby
Ain’t no telling where I may be
May see me in D.C. at Howard Homecoming
With my man Capone, dumbing, fucking something
You should know my steelo
Went from ten G’s for blow to thirty G’s a show
To orgies with hoes I never seen before
So, Jesus, get off the Notorious
Penis, before I squeeze and bust
If the beef between us, we can settle it
With the chrome and metal shit
I make it hot, like a kettle get
You’re delicate, you better get, who sent ya?
You still pedal shit, I got more rides than Great Adventure
Biggie, (How are you gonna do it?)
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
On ya mark, get set, when I spark, ya wet
Look how dark it get when you’re marked for death
Should I start your breath or should I let you die
In fear you start to cry, ask why
Lyrically I’m worshiped, don’t front, the word sick
You cursed it, but rehearsed it
I drop unexpectedly like bird shit
You herbs get stuck quickly for royalties and show money
Don’t forget the publishing, I punish ’em, I’m done with them
Son, I’m surprised you run with them
I think they got cum in them ’cause they nothing but dicks
Trying to blow up like nitro and dynamite sticks
Mad I smoke hydro, rock diamonds that’s sick
Got paid off my flow, rhyme with my own clique
Take trips to Cairo, laying with your bitch
I know you praying you was rich, fucking prick
When I see ya I’mma
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
Kick in the door, waving the four-four
All you heard was Poppa don’t hit me no more
This goes out for those that choose to use
Disrespectful views on the King of N-Y
Fuck that, why try, throw bleach in your eye
Now ya brailling it, snatch that light shit, I’m scaling it
Conscious of ya nonsense, in eighty-eight
Sold more powder than Johnson and Johnson
Tote steel like Bronson, “Vigilante”
You wanna get on son, you need to ask me
Ain’t no other kings in this rap thing
They siblings, nothing but my children
One shot they disappearin’
It’s ill when MC’s used to be on cruddy shit
Took home Ready to Die, listened, studied shit
Now they on some money shit, successful out the blue
They light weight, fragile, my nine milli
Make the whites shake, that’s why my money never funny
And you still recouping, stupid
Songwriters: Christopher E Martin / Jay Hawkins / Christopher Wallace / Christopher Martin

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