This Thing of Ours

I got white pills and white powder
It’s white Bill, sell it right over the counter
Get your hydro with a quarter-pounder
I know all about it, homie, Uncle Howie told me
I’m on top of New York, call my homie Q-Tony
Call me Bill Bixby, real shifty
You fail in your attempts to hit me like the kid that tried to kill fifty
They say that hard times inspires great music
If I have a dime you bet your life I ain’t losing
I’m a true hustler general, executive rank
The type of person that would stab you in the neck with a shank
The type of person that would beat you to death with a bat
And to make sure you dead, shoot you in your head with a gat
The world’s a ghetto, but holding never crossed me
Cause I don’t care if you a rap fan, you gonna listen to metal
Poke you with the pistol, pussy, have you pissing a puddle
Twisted and troubled, smoke you in an instant and crumble
This Thing of Ours
Who do you know?
How do you say?
How do you do?
Lay you the fuck out, out of your crew
The the honorable few
My familia to the end, throw my nine up at you
I got weapons to weaken your pride and sanity
Howie’s nephew, the Puerto Rican side of the family
Q-Capital, I’m attacking you with the mic cord
Fuck the rap battles, bitch, we gonna fight for it
I spit up for the fans and old rap for rappers
Pull up the magnum and cap all you rap bastards
The number one Wiseguy with a gun to make your eyes cry
Told your honey to lay on her stomach and raise her thighs high
Get a percentage of the corner action
The wrong reaction could get you killed and leave a former captain
Many cheat, so many rob, many kill
I seen snitches sell the family out like they was Henry Hill
I strike this lame game until the game’s hurt
I might make a name change and kill you like James Burke (?)
It’s Tony, Anthony coming with the big boy’s plans
And when it’s time to cross over I’m gonna floss with my fans
It’s a matter of trust, honor and respect
Men of few words
We got goons with burners that do the talking that you heard
Snitches and bullshiters, bitches and bean-shooters and backstabbers
I seen (?) talking to Huda
187 on the Huda cop
How do we really know you a cop, Mel?
Pop pop, send you to cop hell
Top of the world, popping the trunk for bodies to burn
We all popping bottles until Gotti returns
I’ve called for a brawl for the young feeble man to see me
Revenge in the hands of young Vito Angelini
Bullseye where your man stand at the (?)
Snatch the fame, they won’t even know what’s missing
Organized crime against labor prohibition
Since I got the after school job at the cab stand
The beat spins, I’m like Gina with deep swings
But I get nowhere unless the team wins