The 3 Lyrical Ps - Sean Price, Styles P, Prodigy

Yeah, P!

(La musica de Harry Fraud)

I could tell by your beard you don’t love Allah

You got the Bryant Gumbel face

It go, waste removal, we dispose brothers

Embarrassing the family, Keyshia Cole mother

Man down, stand down, blam rounds

At bitch niggas thinking that me and my camp clowns

Listen, Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey

I’m strangling brothers, I’m harming them daily

I shoot a fair one with a midget

Duke, I shoot an airgun at a pigeon

Shut the fuck up!

Y’all niggas is bantamweights

Fucking with the white with the Tony Montana face

Andre Iguodala

I smack shit out of you, make your padre give me dollars

I’m not just a rapper I’m a painter by trade

Abstract art, just throw a grenade to your brains

Word to me and mine

Every word from P divine

I smack shit out of niggas dressing like Kia Shine

Yeah

The rap great, the beat crazy

On the daily, serve bullets across your temple get grazed it

Blood pouring out that vein, that’s not wavy

All I do in this world is get the money mainly

All I want in this world, my pretty

Four pound in her Chanel clutch, yeah that’s sweet

For the life, I’ll put your brain next to your feet

Break all your toy soldiers and make it complete

Then take a couple double shots with the team

And party like it’s 2020 on the beach

Life is what you make it so I made it iconic

I fuck her so good, yeah my dick is bionic

I’m dope like chronic, I’m nasty like vomit

I spit up a verse, on your level?

I’m beyond it

Black Mafia, Infamous, on that Mobb shit

Baby, you are now rocking with the best, we good regardless

I hear you talking but it don’t mean shit

'Cause niggas will pop on you like SEAL Team Six

Cheers to the killers in limousines

Dope’s from Thailand, but it’s shipped through the Philippines

Soaked in kerosene and thrown in the guillotine

Burnt with your head cut off, you don’t dream

You’re gelatin, my skeleton is like Wolverine’s

Your family come for revenge, blow 'em to smithereens

I’m like Morpheus on opiates

Matrix, facelift with the can opener

Gatling on the stand whenever the van open up

Doors slide, pit’ll hit your face like it’s rawhide

Bullets hit your teeth like it’s fluoride

I’ma bring you through hell, I’ll be the tour guide

So what you want the hawk or the .45?

Don’t you ask me 'bout no rappers they can all die