Redman ft. Method Man - Rite (ft. Loaded Lux) | Текст песни

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• Redman ft. Method Man
• Rite (ft. Loaded Lux)

[Hook]
My vision gettin’ clearer
I’m lookin’ in the mirror
I’m sayin’ to myself “that’s a fly nigga”
Harlem is the city, got all my niggas with me
You know that they get busy, “lets ride nigga”
Dah, dah, daditty dah dee dah, daditty dah dee day
You niggas know I’m hot “Rite”
Dah, dah, daditty dah dee day, daditty dah dee day
You tryin’ to take my spot “Rite”

[Verse 1: Loaded Lux]
Play the bench the starter’s is stayin’ in
My thinking cap on I’m ’bout ready to raise the brim
Been bathing in the money so honeys the fakers went
I got enough fans ain’t looking to make a friend
Bad news for niggas with rap moves
The facts prove I way up in the stat pool
If cash rules the bread good then you fast food
Thought I left, but I right on ‘em like tattoos
Mirror on the wall, who’s the flyest of all
Maybe the monologue, or fancy designer clothes
Buyin’ out the bar for baby behind the bar
So you can tell them niggas retire I’m on my job
They want me as a martyr
Drop the hem or a mama
RIP out to Huddy and light a candle for Harlem
Bring the niggas that knew me and bitches that love me truly
100 bands in the box and bury me in my Gucci
(Beloved)

[Hook]

[Verse 2: Redman]
All my fans say fuck you in they fan mail
Cause I had they main girl on a hand-held
I go to the store they try to pop my fan-belt
Then I body ‘em in the street like Cornbread Earl
Boy I’m that thorough, I’m like a pitbull
Windex in the pen to make it crystal
170 but in rap I’m a big dude
So yeah, I got bars like a Gym Room
Boy I’m that dirty
So tell the rap Jury
That tennis, The only way a nigga gon’ serve me
My black Mac Bernie, I even mat suri
Shit I’m killin’ the Mic Like Conrad Murray
Get ya weight up boy, you wan’ hustle with it
Even my protein bars got muscle in it
Pop my trunk, Pop Yours nothin’ in it
I’m Cool so hol’ up, Wait a minute

[Hook]

[Verse 3: Method Man]
Lux I’m Loaded ’bout ready to spit a verse
On hater’s I unloaded be ready to get his hearse
I’m bout to send him notice If Harlem don’t get him first
Send him down to unemployment cause homey gone get this work
Hot Benz, every honey is top ten
If she Hops in, then mo’ than likely we not friends
Look I’m locked in, Hit you like Skelly, your top spin
First I pop, then I’m out like Pirelli’s on stock rims
Flyest in the game, still applyin’ the pain
Since Milk was Top Billin’, and Lyte was ridin’ the train
These paper thin villains get scraped and thrown in the flame
85% of rappers is fake and so is they chain
Now that’s a no-brainer
36 in my Chamber
Now a moment of silence I throw a L up for Banga
Lyricist not a Singa
Don’t ever forget its Gangsta
Ladies they get the thumbs up coppers they just get the finga
(Beloved)

[Hook]

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