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Fes Taylor
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Moneta
[Fes Taylor:] This ain't an intro, this is rap terrorism Make sure you got Two 4 blasting in your system Turn tracks to victims, mask on, stick 'em up Yeah give it up, before the paramedics pick you up From the cold concrete, drop bombs on your feet I be palming the heat, act calm in the streets Till it jump off, why you wanna make me act crazy They be telling police all about, hoping they cage me Snitches get stitches, always been a rude, growing up Nowadays put you in a grave, soon as I get cuffed One officer got snuffed, resisting arrest You think I'm going peacefully? I don't give a fuck who you are Show me respect, blow you like breath from a dying man For the OG's who'll probably die in the can These livewire lyrics the club be scared to play Cause my hooks get the party popping, like AK's So make way, part the crowd, let the kid through If we got beef, for real, try to get rid of you Hoes like visual arts, you see the ghetto through my eyes Learn how to take pistols apart Put them together, professional street thug MC's Took it to the business level, now we seeing cheese No books I wrote in, worth more than Mickey Mantle's card I live life risky and leave it in the hands of God Playa, it's Fes Taylor, top notch rapper Grimey like stick-up kids and pocketbook snatchers
[Chorus: Fes Taylor] Make money, get out hustle, bring dollars in Take money, that's what my gangsta be hollaring Get money, yeah, I need a whole lot of it Flip money, so we'll never run out of it Get it on, with whoever, whenever, for this cheddar Wilding over Moneta, the more, the better
[Fes Taylor:] I'm Fes Taylor, somebody that you can't avoid If rapping's your job, about to live you unemployed Unless you rolling with us, blowing a Dutch, know what's up Everything you holding we crush, total your truck Trying to get away, like fuck, damn, them niggas found us Put you with the founders, after the four pounders Blood like water fountains, all on your trousers For atleast fifteen ounces, I run up in houses Two Forty Warriors, flood the projects With narcotics, big pistols and sharp objects Gatling Isle, N.Y., my hood be real Like the lead MC from Cypress Hill, Park Hill Streets is wild, hoes I pull 'em like root canals Neighbors complain, chicks be moaning, so I keep the music loud Break MC's down, before was only breaking the law Moneta: The Album, presented by Two 4 Profes, the artist, Fes Taylor, the gangsta Spit darts like no one else, that's why I'm ranked the Number one soloist, rookie of the year, rap All that hot shit you talking, the God hear that Cars, jewels, houses and money, playa, where it at? Niggas get buck fifties like they buying Air Max Bubble your face up, Park Hill, lames keep they chains tucked Cause they heard of us, Shaolin We the Wolfpack Warriors, we be dumbing out See me at your baby mother's house, coming out Aiyo, I dart down raps, melt plastic all ways I'm like, Bishop from Juice, pull out ratchets on friends If you cross me, make the block hot like coffee In front of your boys, you yelling 'get him off me' The game's salty, tastes like seawater Any MC slaughter, CEO's, blow trees with they daughters Have 'em rocking WP headbands And two shows in the pro-ho van, til they knees hurt We creep through the dirt, Taylor put in work Ride through your hood, next day, with a smirk, what up? Heat first, coming through your door, one burst Hit son, homicide, damn, yo, police thirst Cursing out the judge, my niggas won't budge We got a four hundred year old grudge, muthafucka...
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