Lyrics

Another Hit

Verse
Living the American Dream, like Al Pacino;
Most gangster rapper imitate us, although it seems so;
Back at the shop, in my own street casino;
I do what I do just to get me the C-notes;
Business men come there to give me their riches;
If I don't get a cut, they'll end up in stiches.
Vicious snitches, bodies never seen,
We professional criminals keep the crime scene clean;
Still get my hands dirty, that's why the feds work me;
When they bust my balls, I tell them jerk me.
They can never hurt me, I've got this whole thing sewn up;
Can I help it if a couple tvs fell off the truck?
Shoes clothes diamonds, you want it I got it.
Just look for the Sicilian in the parking lot.
My jewelery box got ice, look like a freezer;
Spend a couple grand at my leisure.
I'm giving them seizures, and don't you ever try to catch up,
Because I crossed the finish line before you goombas looked up.
The wheels of my truck spin like my organization,
I know a good doctor, who's taking new patients, you're gonna need him.


Verse
Sicilians making millions, nothing short of brilliance.
Making blood money, make a couple killings.
Maybe shaking hands with a couple villains.
Tip of wine glass, make a couple dealings;
Soldiers muscle up if you're feeling willing,
Gotta shoot to kill, we have no feeling.
This money's to pay for my gold ceilings,
Gotto work to live, cause there's no sitting.
See my work consists of rules bound by greed,
Signed in blood that means somebody must bleed.
See, we live a life not imagined by most,
When I raise a toast, it's caviar on my toast.
I have lunch on G-4s and orgies on boats,
And in between I have time to scribble ransom notes.
Hope floats but your relatives will sleep with the fishes,
If they don't make quota and come up with my riches.
I pull the levers, I control the switches.
No flaws in the chain of command, there's no glitches.
From the soldier to the cappos and even a few hitters.
All stand at the drop of a hat to go getters.
They'll go get her her and him and him too.
If you step on the wrong side of the don and his crew.
Take bights out of snitches however we don't shoot.
But we know how to spin like a gun, two shots and you're through.


Chorus:
One shot and your story gets told,
Two shots and your blood runs cold,
Three shots and your chord gets snipped,
We ordering another hit.
Four shots and somebody must die,
Five shots with the birds you'll fly,
Six shots cause we're making chips,
We're ordering another hit.