Rec-Room Therapy - Ghostface Killah, Raekwon, U-God

A’ight, now, this is how we gon' do this shit

You know’m sayin'?

Niggas wasn’t out in the streets back then

When was doing this shit son, you know what I mean?

Yeah, check the story

I done flushed bags of powder down project toilets

You could of found of me on the steps dusted, unable to call it

Jums in my pocket, the rental was stolen

Tapping pockets on the local drug dealers, just to see what they holding

I know, niggas with crack viles stuck to they colon

The acid, done bubbled up, now they stomachs is swollen

That just, life in the hood, ceramic glass, who we bag in our stash

The ultraviolet haze, we hit it and pass

We toast to the Ghost of old days, yeah, old ager huh

We rap renegades, must stay paid

+ (Ghostface Killah)

Get money (get money) Get money, Ghost (get money)

Get money (get money) Get money, Ghost (get money)

Big fluffed out gooses on, Stan Smiths

The housing cops can suck our dicks, we jumping out of convertible matchbox

shits, next drip inhaling

Chilling, my throat frozen, my orange brick

Bottles of Cru', bitches with Baby Phats, they swinging ax

They singing, you still blinging, daddy, now bring it back

To smoke these rap niggas, honey, I’mma need a match

To bust the game wide open, I’mma need an ax

I juggle this, practice, smuggle heroin in the cactus

Keep it hood, I still go and fuck a fat bitch

Actress, slinging the backs of five Cleopatras

A cocaine Chef, I stretch money like elastic, nigga

My raps is bigger, dynamics with the muscle advantage

Jay Cutler on dust, when I blam shit

Yo, we been bagging since 18, kid, Polo rugs on with gloves on

Rented cars, fronting on winning broads

Gum slow, half moon, leather pants, Avia' days

Keep your hands off my blunt and my waves

Benetton, Superman bomb, everybody in the lobby, we clapping

Hats on, protecting your moms, you know how we play

Spray something down if the team say

It’s on, I dedicate my lines to the PJ’s

Triple beams, Pyrex jars, smoking nickle weeds

All we did is look mad fly, icicle rings

Whatever homeboy, you want it?

You could get your receipt

A little closer, you can sense we got heat, it’s only me

Plus four other ill gangstas, we all anxious

To blow up your block and spank shit

Yo, I’m down for the get down, hit the town, sick the bloodhounds on 'em

I rip clowns, I flip pounds, I spit rounds

I’m on the prowl, my stomach growl, crushed by the crowd

Rush through Loud Records, drop mushroom clouds

I’m not a rat, I’m spellbound, I melt down

Your G-Force, with heat walks

Free falling to a bed of money, bet he’s hungry

Spread the honey, big head inside the Humvee

Mix lead inside my lungies, spend bread on my Dungarees

And such and such, Ghost plugged me with this slut

Bitch, don’t hug me, bug me, I’m ugly when I fuck

I’m hard like a jungle hunter, bust off in Heather

Double cross me, lift your boss off your feet, 'course he’s feather

Whatever, whatever, he cried in the Benz

Tennis players get fried, playing both sides of the ends

Keep your eyes on your friends, cuz they spy for the feds

Watch me rise from the dead, I got ties with the dreads