Preacher On A Sunday Morning

Kilka, kills mania
Get used to this one
«crack»
Scotty
Oh yeah I’m back on that shit
And I say right about now New York City
They say is life and death, there’s no future fronting
I see a mac and a tec keeping duz coming
Coka
Joe is a fake Cartagegna
Nice with the hands better with the banger
Guns I’m no stranger
Keep an A. K when I battle probably throw a fake nigga parade. I’m known!
But who gives a fuck I don’t care
Don’t lead them let the welfare feed them
Niggas had me thinking that Joey is fucked up!
Skiddles with the maybachs banging rooftops
Life sucks for you maybe the Jew is crazy
In the stay pieces to death thanks to who baby
Stay cleaned up on a preacher on a sunday morning, I got cake but I need more
ice and alle
I say off the streets I’m a symphony, niggas want my sympathy presiding
official remedy
Stay cleaned up on a preacher on a sunday morning
King of New york, King of New York, but we don’t ever see these niggas up in
New york
Can anybody tell me where’s St. Tropez
All these so called killers try their best to dress gay
Everybody beefing it’s the same old day
All these mixtape rappers now want to claim king
Everybody saying they are bringing New Yor back
But we the only niggas you pitch back the back (crack!)
You hear the echo, son of a nesto I’ll let the tec blow
You should feel sky plenty like pistol, fuck a phone call I barely got a
whistle, nigga
Coka, there’s no one harder
Get off your knees get a job at the carter
Throw a banks and invite your friends
Yougarentee to see a couple of ends
See I’ve been getting money since who knows when
These other niggas just all pretend
You’ve been bamboozled diz duzu say thugs
Love at madison square they givin group hugs
Now let me take you to the streets of darkness, where I keep your favourite mc
underneath my armpit the bronze kid
I’m only speaking the truth
Shit, look what these streets
May cologilua do