Singer: Nas
|
Song: EPMD 2
Nas - EPMD 2 Subtitles (SRT) (03:36-216-0-en) (PARTIAL PREVIEW)
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by RentAnAdviser.com
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Respectfully
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Bucket on low like Erick and Parrish
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Closed casket flow, all
you niggas get deaded
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They don't give you one single
rose while you can smell it
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So I pick from my own garden (Garden)
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Wanna go out in my garden
like Godfather
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Grandkids and a Rottweiler got over
the block trauma (Yeah, trauma)
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So what you sayin', nigga? You
gots to chill (Uh-huh)
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Thinkin' you the truth, really
you not for real (EPMD!)
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Back to back with it, the hardest shit
of the year (Nasir Jones, remix)
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EPMD, we back in business
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Ain't nobody fuckin' with us,
come to your senses (Uh)
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P is the second comin' of God,
somеthin' to witness
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Piece of shit, fly on your hеad like
Mike Pence's, we in the trenches
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I'm mad, better yet, I'm on a rampage
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My people can't even get minimum wage
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Fuck a stimulus (Uh), give
me some interest (Uh)
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Give me a loan (Oh), give me a home
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Give me that land you
owe me so I can roam
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So when you trespass, blaow,
one in your dome
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Best wishes, ghost 'em like he Tommy
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Ain't worried 'bout nothing
'cause Hit Squad behind me
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EPMD, we back in business
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I visualize what it is,
not what it isn't
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We at the mafia table
next to the kitchen
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Eatin' Michelin Stars,
countin' a million
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Dun! I let it go for the family,
meetin's at Cote in Miami
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Them wine bottles on
maggie, extra large
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Sign up for my masterclass, Escobar
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Feet up at Mets Stadium
at my restaurant
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Tied in from AZ to Dave East
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You know my thoughts get crazy
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My teachers, they couldn't grade me
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I know some Haitians in Dade County,
got choppers in Haiti
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She booked a flight to Colombia,
made her body amazin'
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Just to post it on Tumblr, this
that "fuck up the summer" shit
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I don't care what you comin'
with, me and Hit-Boy runnin'
shit (Runnin' shit)
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Big gold, rope chains, but they flooded
now (Yeah, flooded now)
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Pull up with the Ghost like a haunted
house (Haunted house)
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She gettin' scary, blood
on my hands like Carrie
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Might walk through a cemetery to
see where hip-hop is buried
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I said it was dead, but it faked
its death like Machiavelli
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You see letters in red splatter,
look like sauce and spaghetti
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EPMD, we're back in business (What?)
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Livin' in cramped conditions,
will give you ammunition
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I stock those shelves, I got
those shells like Taco Bell
and I'm not gon' fail
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I got no L's (Noels) like Christmas,
you don't wanna make the
claws (Claus) come out (Nah)
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Y'all should call yourselves
Santa (Why?) 'cause none
of y'all are real (Nah)
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Not a 'single one' (Like what?),
like a dollar bill (Yeah)
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Just like your bitch in appellate
court, she's on a pill (Appeal)
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We got her a 'bond' and she'll
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Never 'bail' on me (Bail on me), not
even outta jail (Haha, jail)
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EPMD, but me, I gots
no chill (Ch-chill)
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Just a lotta skrill
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Lady, my paper's so crazy,
I just tossed a mil' out
the window of my mobile
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On the fuckin' freeway on
the way here (Yeah)
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Like Rudolph and his homies when
they pullin' the sleigh, yeah
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That's a lot of bucks flyin' when
I'm makin' it rain, dear
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Green on me but no weed, shorty,
just these, darling
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A pocket full of pills, some are Tylenol
3s, prolly two or three Molly
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So some are E (Summary), which reminds
me of "Rap Summary," mami
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