Mechanical Animals - Saigon, Memphis Bleek, Lil Bibby

Just wakin up in the morning, gotta thank God

Last night my uncle pulled off a bank job

Them rich crackers they robbed in Cape Cod

can’t even make out a race of a face so they straight y’all

My momma dead, I trained my daddy to get her back

I know a lot of y’all thinkin, «What kind of shit is that?»

That’s fact, but if you wanna jump on a fast track

He can kiss my whole black ass crack

That ain’t sound right, this shit is true as ever

It’s simply what you get when you put two and two together

The red Panorama, fuck it, the blue Carrera

The Porsche Cayenne, the sedan, the coupe, whatever

Every day above ground is a good day

I’ve been around ten years and I should stay

The realest rapper in the world what I would say

My actions so loud you wouldn’t hear me anyway

Yo (Bleek)

Light the weed up, pour the D’USSE

I never gave a fuck about what you say

Just know your main bitch is a side bitch

I hit her with the Pro Tools, left her to you, logic

Greasy, back on that shit again

My bullets kill, murder, call it a synonym

I’m 'bout to sin again, niggaz fuckin with him again

I kill bosses, merely cripple the middlemen

And any day I break bread is a great day

Play with the money, I’m Bobby Johnson, you Ray Ray

As my nigga Sai' said, «Bleek don’t play»

They know a nigga mean business holdin down that K

Yeah the S.K., A.K., B-K, 100 K

Ridin in the V with the G-L-O-C-K

Yeah, M-Greasy the meanest

I’m so hot niggaz can’t extinguish

Uhh (Bibby)

The block is hot, the cops they watch us

We, load the Glock up, shoot yo' block up

We don’t ever fight so don’t try and box us

Swear they gon' need more police to stop us

Hustle for the dollars, weed I got a lot of

Diamonds on my robins, they sag on her Pradas

Better fix yo' cap jack, 'fore you get yo' scalp cracked

Why you on my block thuggin knowin you ain’t 'bout that?

Fuckin up these beats got the streets on fire

And my youngest play with heat, the police on fire

If you want beef 2−2-3's gon' ride

And if you got them hundreds you can meet 4−5

But if you ain’t got shit, that’ll get you shot quick

Niggaz in the streets know I’m all about a profit

The block is hot, the ops get shot

And I know they want revenge so my Glock is cocked

(G!) From the land where they reach here, Omaha Beach here

Not the place you sunbathe in your beach chair

No white sands, nobody tannin with the bleach hair

Sanitation’ll bleach your blood out the streets here

Far from mellow, hard fellow, Frank Costello

Orchestrate his harps and cellos

And swear they sell, blow the door on theyself

Called survival of the fittest, he did it, go into self-mode

Camoflauge in your pocket, garage stealth mode

Run with the rumors;

I run with these consumers

I put cats on your head like skully hat for Puma

Costume at the crib like I’m fixin cable

Hit your navel and put your lunch back on the kitchen table

Head with one big hole, like a twisted bagel

Get tagged up in the bag with the zipper label

Big calibre shit so everything you get is fatal