Testo Mafia Music III - Rick Ross feat. Sizzla & Mavado
Testo della canzone Mafia Music III (Rick Ross feat. Sizzla & Mavado), tratta dall'album Mastermind
My corner so polluted, young niggas looting
I studied Kenneth Williams, I'm one hell of a student
Remarkable hustle, my niggas coming home
I kept the candle lit, my nigga never rowed
Niggas caught him slipping, gave him a shit bag
Five shots to the stomach, 2Pac gift pack
It's death row, conspiracy theories
Concealed indictments handed to the grand jury
Get some money now, you hated by your own kind
The home invasion done by niggas in your bloodline
GABOS, game ain't based on sympathy
So he put a hit on his cousin and aunties
Her sweet potato pies, oh me, oh my
Showing no remorse watching the others cry
Heroin sales, detectives'll sell
A lot of yellow tape, where that Obama care?
This the mob, bitch, silk underwear
Yeezy concerts, Kim Instagrams
Niggas hating, though they studied my moves
I'm like Farrakhan, in view of hundreds of Jews
Two attempts on my life, they threatened venues
Can't you see what I am? The hustle continue
I bought more jewels, I ordered the Wraith
I got a new style of shoes, match the watch in the face
Bill Belichick, coaching and calling the shots
Throw a yellow flag, pussy nigga body drops
Then we celebrate, black bottles pop
Time to elevate, we re-open shop
Wale a genius, Meek Mill a superstar
My new crib in Phoenix, ten car garage
Patek Philippe, platinum Audemars
Ain't no tags needed, nigga, I own them cars
I know them bitches, we met them broads
Never loved one, fucked them all
I'm a fucking dog, Ricky fucking Ross
Get Birkin bags just for my runner-ups
But my main bitch, she get the main dish
Not the old Range, that was a lame bitch
Brazilian weave, she say I came quick
I let her see a 100 ki's, a gift from St. Nick
Moving bricks like it's Black Friday
She gotta fuck me or call me a fat crybaby
Looking over my shoulder, I can't trust a soul
Bought a spot in Anguilla just for me and my hoe
Glock .40, even when I shower
Chrome .22 in my swimming towel
Mob ties and I pray the music set me free
May the powers that be, may they let me be
Ya better not be around when the sun goes down
And the real, real killers them out for ya
It's gonna be a bloodshed
One buss, one dead, it's gonna be a bloodshed
Gun-gunshot inna head
Payback is a motherfucker
Yes, I feel it when I squeeze the trigger
I feel the urge when my enemies die
I feel the strength of ten killer
What is to be will be
Only God alone can kill me
'Cause these fuckin' streets filthy
And I ain't fucking guilty
Gangsta no take no chat from no guy, know why?
Violate a gangsta and bullets fly, bwoy die
Guns go off, or so mi say
Murderation, anywhere
Gangsta no take no chat from no guy, know why?
Violate a gangsta and bullets fly, bwoy die
Guns go off, or so we say
Murderation, anywhere
Ya better not be around when the sun goes down
And the real, real killers them out for ya
It's gonna be a bloodshed
One buss, one dead, it's gonna be a bloodshed
Gun-gunshot inna head
Sizzla Kolanji and Rick Ross have the girls dem screaming
The entire country, every street lab, you already know the meaning
Man ah streaming, goin' clean, you can't diss me, you must be dreaming
Jamaicans, mek dem know we carry the team in
(More fire)
Credits
Writer(s): Roosevelt Iii Harrell, Kirk Andre Bennett, David Constantine Brooks, Migel Orlando Collins, William Leonard Roberts, Bobby Grantley Dixon
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