Verse One:



I gets banned if I do gets banned if I don't

So sometimes I will and sometimes I won't

Puff mad stick crack a forty down the back

Sit fat and relax and plan my attack

Not the one to test I posess mad finesse

My buddha was blessed one bird in the nest

Chills with my peeps steady bouncing in jeeps

on the New York streets hittin urban concrete

I'm the man untestable with the extraterrestrial flow

Fo'-fifty-fix celo, pop the top off the forty ounce bottle

I'm not the one to follow, I'm not the role model

Hollow tips in my clips money grip and my Glock

only spits when I react to the bullshit

So give me room to breathe and get up off DEEZ

And save the confessions for JEESuz

Plus I don't need to hear no sorrow

Eff it, the sun will still come out tomorrow

Long as I'm breathing, needing, even like Steven

Achieving, gettin some cheese and

representin lovely, Boogie Down Bronx major

with the project flavor, I made ya, daze ya

My behavior is mad ill if you front

You know what I want!



Chorus:



(Whutcha want Nine?) Fat beats for my rides

(So whutcha want Nine?) Mad clips for my nines

(So whutcha want Nine?) A ill posse

and my name up in lights, N-I-N-E



Verse Two:



I'ma let you know how I feel on the real

I pack steel it's like a jungle makes me wonder where my eel is

Hits the bricks skips the dog shit complete in my cipher

Temper like Rowdy Rowdy Piper, hyper like a viper

I'ma strike if I got it goin for the jugular

Stretch you like a copper

Stoppah, stoppah, but you can't stop me

Just clock me, just watch me blow up the spot G

Came a long way from, back in the day

we did it for no pay, just rhymin hit the hay and

sleep, wake up, write another rhyme

Hit the park after dark drop the beat one time

That's when shit was real, no phonies no baloney

Just the homemade mics and wheels of steel

Backup from the roof, amp plugged in the street light

Everything right, jam over a street fight

Back to the lab I grab my pen and pad

Raw lyrics make a fleuredoscad

Had no dinero, enough get fo' chicken wings and rice

A forty ounce a nickel bag to get nice

And now I might make a million, and still son

it makes the heart pump, you know what I want



Chorus



Verse Three:



Be like Elmer J. Fudd with the mansion and the yacht

Brand new Glock non-stop hip-hop

Remote control boombox lampin on my dresser

The God ain't no lesser as the pressure comes to test ya

Hundred pound weight around the neck, daily

nuff treasons nuff reasons like Philip Bailey

Can't get enough of that funky stuff

Rhymin astronomical, original, shit is phenomenal

Heat up the ghetto put the pedal to the metal

Speed like Racer treat you like a wack rhyme and erase ya

Right off the pape I roll a big fat spliff

Four-fifth on the hip, Heineken in the grip shit I'm ready

Get the keys for the jeep, let's bounce

Cruise avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the

Funkmaster Flex cassette in the deck

I'm in effect I move my neck while Son gets wreck

Oh what a feeling, I'm on the wheels of steel and

I snatch up some skins for some sexual healing

Erything's kosher copasctetic, groovy hip-hop moves me

soothes me, I'm letting off like an uzi

But first steps a doozy and bruise me

Now I'm choosy before I start to freak it like a floozy

I wanna get big get paid true stunt

You know what I want!



Chorus