Life’s On The Line lyrics

Nobody likes me
Nobody likes me, but that's okay
'Cause I don't like ya'll anyway
Man, I don't like ya'll anyway
f*ck all ya'll

I let my watch talk for me, my whip talk for me
My gat talk for me, grrraahh, what up homie?
Them n*ggas who don't know me, they wanna blow me
'Cause the sh*t I floss with be saying a lot for me

I came in the rap humble, I don't give a f*ck now
I'll serve anybody like n*ggas who hustle uptown
Coke prices go up, capsules come down
The D's run in they crib, they nowhere to be found
n*ggas who hustle for heat, nah they don't even stash tracks
They keep 'em on 'em, right there in they ass crack
When I don't like b*tches, nah gator don't pretend to
I'll have the paramedics wrap your f*cking head like a Hindu

Look, I ain't going nowhere, so get used to me
OGs look at me and see I'm what they used to be
I know n*ggas that sold coke, the n*ggas that sold dope
Same n*ggas that shot dice, went broke then sold soap
Them thugs that pop sh*t, them thugs that pop clips
Them thugs that went from three and a half to a whole brick
b*tches ain't in they right mind going against me
My pictures painted through words, I make a blind b*tch see
Scream, "Murda," I don't believe you
"Murda," f*ck around and leave you
"Murda," I don't believe you
"Murda, murda," your life's on the line

Ya'll b*tches don't want no parts of me
You tryna figure out how they started me
You gon' make me catch you on a late night
Pop shots with the fifth, then slide off in the six

I'm not a marksman while spark, that n*gga spray random
I don't f*ck with pretty boys, but his moms think he handsome
I hate to hear that 'he say, she say' sh*t
Unless she say he said he on my clit
It's no coincidence b*tches who f*ck with me getting shot up
Straight Cali style, drive by and tear your whole block up
You know you soft b*tch, putting up a crazy front
Stay with the MAC ' cause them n*ggas tried to blaze 'em up
I'm in New York like, "Damn, Gator really spit it on 'em"
"You heard that sh*t?" "Yeah, Lola really sh*tted on 'em"
Beef, you don't want none, so don't start none
You're just a small player in the game, play your part, son

Scream, "Murda," I don't believe you
"Murda," f*ck around and leave you
"Murda," I don't believe you
"Murda, murda," your life's on the line
These cats always escape reality when they rhyme
That's why they write about bricks and only dealt with dimes
Leave it to them, and they say they got a fast car