Whutcha Want

I gets banned if I do, gets banned if I don't
So sometimes I will and sometimes I won't (I won't)
(Puff) mad stick, crack a forty down the back
Sit fat and relax and plan my attack (my attack)

Not the one to test, I possess mad finesse
My Buddha was blessed one bird in the nest
Chills with my peeps steady bouncing in Jeeps
On the New York street hittin' urban concrete

I'm the man untestable, with the extraterrestrial flow
456 Cee-Lo, pop the top off the forty ounce bottle
I'm not the one to follow, I'm not the role model
Hollow tips in my clips, money grip
And my Glock only spits when I react to the bullshit

So give me room to breathe and get up off deez
And save the confessions for Jesus
Plus I don't need to hear no sorrow
F it, the sun will still come out tomorrow

Long as I'm breathing, needing
Even like Steven, achieving, getting some cheese and
Representin' lovely, Boogie Down Bronx major
With the project flavor, I made ya
Daze ya, my behavior is mad ill if you front
You know what I want (ayy)

(Whutcha want Nine?) fat beats for my rhymes
(So whutcha want Nine?) mad clips for my nines
(So whutcha want Nine?) an ill posse
And my name up in lights, N-I-N-E

I'ma let you know how I feel on the real
I pack steel, it's like a jungle, makes me wonder where my heel hits
The bricks, skips the dog shit, completin' my cipher
Temper like Rowdy Roddy Piper
Hyper like a viper, I'ma strike if I gotta, goin' for the jugular
Stretch you like a copper

Stopper, stopper, but you can't stop me
Just clock me, just watch me blow up the spot, G
Came a long way from back in the day
We did it for no pay, just rhyme and hit the hay

And sleep, wake up, write another rhyme
Hit the park after dark, drop the beat one time
That's when shit was real, no phonies, no baloney
Just a homie, mics and wheels of steel

Backup from the roof, amp plugged in the street light
Everything right, jam over street fight
Back to the lab I grab my pen and pad
Raw lyrics make a sore and a scab

Had no dinero, enough get for chicken wings and rice
A 40 ounce, a nickel bag to get nice
Now I might make a million
And still, son, it makes the heart pump
You know what I want

(Whutcha want Nine?) fat beats for my rhymes
(So whutcha want Nine?) mad clips for my nines
(So whutcha want Nine?) an ill posse
And my name up in lights, N-I-N-E

Be like Elmer J. Fudd with the mansion and the yacht
Brand new Glock, non-stop hip-hop
Remote control boombox lampin' on my dresser
The God ain't no lesser as the pressure comes to test ya

Hundred pound weight around the neck daily
No treasons, nuff reasons like Philip Bailey
Can't get enough of that funky stuff
Rhymin' astronomical, original, shit is phenomenal

Heat up the ghetto, put the pedal to the metal
Speed like Racer, treat you like a wack rhyme and erase ya
Right off the paper, roll a big fat spliff
Four-fifth on the hip, Heineken in the grip

Shit, I'm ready, get the keys for the Jeep, let's bounce
Cruise avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the
Funkmaster Flex cassette in the deck
I'm in effect, I move my neck while son gets wreck
Oh, what a feeling, I'm on the wheels of steel
And I snatch up some skins for some sexual healing

Everything's kosher, copacetic, groovy, hip-hop moves me
Soothes me, I'm letting off like an Uzi
But first step's a doozy and bruise me
Now I'm choosy before I start to freak it like a floozy
I wanna get big get paid true stunt
You know what I want

(Whutcha want Nine?) fat beats for my rhymes
(So whutcha want Nine?) mad clips for my nines
(So whutcha want Nine?) an ill posse
And my name up in lights, N-I-N-E