Released: February 8, 2000
Songwriter: Carlos “6 July” Broady Ghostface Killah
Producer: Carlos “6 July” Broady
[Verse]
Saturday night, Uptown
Riding past Kansas Fried Chicken
What's popping kid, we in the mix
It's chilly 40 below
Gate's closed gotta catch Dr. J's
Blow on my hand, rub on my nose
Tap the glass, stop fronting Duke, fresh pair of jeans
Look I got loot, eleven in the beige boots
Heard a screech pull up, these Jakes flashed me five pictures
One had my man's mug, Semi stepped brother hugs
You asked the wrong guy son
I'm from Atlanta, yeah we know Mr. Coles
Flew in two days ago to see his fam'
But we been watching you, crazily
The whole Staten Island shitting on you
Wisdom Bird's pregnant out in Baisley
Holding snow in your ear, fresh baldie tried to change up
Not truck today, still looking fly, still slammed up hung
You mind popping your trunk, slow your pace
Starks fixed your face, copped out the six, five years probash'
You dealing with a lot of science, motherfucker we're watching you
Make me wanna lick shots at you
You disgust me, screwing me down, grab my gun
Go head bust me
Heard you hate Jake that's what it must be
Hands behind your back, spread your legs
Just found a roach in your tray
It's not mine fucker, what I said
You make the 13th nigga
A multimillion dollar operation is based upon it yo
Where the hell's the RZA
He's selling mics, wireless joints
Special made to go off in your hand and which went out on point
Switched to the next scene, I'm at the crib bugging out
On how po' live, hating plus harassing the kid
Park the truck in the double face garage
Dial 1-900-Raekwon, tell the God shit's mega real
Flashing me on BET, Planet Groove, Rap City News
NAACP committees {*abruptly ends*}
Saturday night, Uptown
Riding past Kansas Fried Chicken
What's popping kid, we in the mix
It's chilly 40 below
Gate's closed gotta catch Dr. J's
Blow on my hand, rub on my nose
Tap the glass, stop fronting Duke, fresh pair of jeans
Look I got loot, eleven in the beige boots
Heard a screech pull up, these Jakes flashed me five pictures
One had my man's mug, Semi stepped brother hugs
You asked the wrong guy son
I'm from Atlanta, yeah we know Mr. Coles
Flew in two days ago to see his fam'
But we been watching you, crazily
The whole Staten Island shitting on you
Wisdom Bird's pregnant out in Baisley
Holding snow in your ear, fresh baldie tried to change up
Not truck today, still looking fly, still slammed up hung
You mind popping your trunk, slow your pace
Starks fixed your face, copped out the six, five years probash'
You dealing with a lot of science, motherfucker we're watching you
Make me wanna lick shots at you
You disgust me, screwing me down, grab my gun
Go head bust me
Heard you hate Jake that's what it must be
Hands behind your back, spread your legs
Just found a roach in your tray
It's not mine fucker, what I said
You make the 13th nigga
A multimillion dollar operation is based upon it yo
Where the hell's the RZA
He's selling mics, wireless joints
Special made to go off in your hand and which went out on point
Switched to the next scene, I'm at the crib bugging out
On how po' live, hating plus harassing the kid
Park the truck in the double face garage
Dial 1-900-Raekwon, tell the God shit's mega real
Flashing me on BET, Planet Groove, Rap City News
NAACP committees {*abruptly ends*}
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