I Shot Ya (Remix)LL Cool J

[Produced by Trackmasters]

[Intro: Keith Murray]
Ha!
Yeah (Ha, ha, ha)
L.O.D
Keith Murray
Def Squad (Def Squad)
Mister, Mister, Mister, Mister Smith
You want a hit?
(Ugh)
Give me a hour plus a pen and a pad
Yo

[Verse 1: Keith Murray]
I'm here to make a dollar out of fifteen cents
And let my balls hang like I'm on a toilet taking a shit
My style is all that and a big bag of chips with the dip (Drip)
Fuck all that sensuous shit (Drip)
I represent intellectual violence
And leave your clique holier than the Ten Commandments
Like Redman, I shift with the ruck
If your "if" was a spliff, we'd be all fucked up (Word up)
No need to ask you, "Who is he?" Son I get busy
Scuff my Timbs on the boulevard on many rough cities
(Chicago, LA, any of 'em) I'll have to Norman Bate you (Yeah)
I love ta hate you cause you's a freak by nature
Can't wait to face ya, mutilate ya
Drink your style down straight with no chaser (Word up)
My verbal combat's like a mini-Mac to your back (Uh-huh)
As soon as one of you niggas try to over react (Blaow!)
The L.O.D. love good confrontation or vamp (Word up)
Break your concentration, murder your camp (Ugh)
For the jealous, overzealous, we fellas
Blow the the spot like Branford Marsalis (Bom-bom-bom)
Niggas coming through and acting wild (Word)
Y'all commercial niggas better have a Coke and a smile
I shot ya!

[Verse 2: Prodigy]
I conversate with many men (What), it's time to begin again
Forgot what I already knew, ayo, you hear me friend?
Illuminati want my mind, soul and my body
Secret society, trying to keep they eye on me (Nah, nah)
But I'ma stay incogni', in places they can't find me
Make my moves strategically, the G.O.D
It's sorta similar but iller than a chess player
I use my thinker, it coincides with my blinker
While you wondered what we saying on the records real (What)
Yeah, you motherfucking right, kid, you know the deal
My Mobb is Infamous just like the fuckin' title read
You get back-slapped so hard, make ya nose bleed (Ahh!)
Some def kids feeling guilty 'bout the space shit
The truth hurts, baby girl, so just face it (Alright)
But anyway, back on the real side of things
My niggas sling cracks and wear fat diamond rings
Not only is it inside the songs that we sing (Kid)
Everything is real, not just a song that we sing (Word up)
From my life to the paper (What), very accurately
Give you all of my two so maybe you can three
Prodigy will forever will S-H-I-N-E (Shine, baby, shine, shine, yeah)
My shit attract millions like the moon attract the sea
How dare you ever in your life walk past me (What)
Without acknowledging this man as G-O-D
I shot your faggot ass

[Verse 3: Fat Joe]
Ugh, now, who the fuck you think you talking to?
I pay dues, I spray crews
Look, I'm Joey Crack, motherfuckers be like, "He's bad news"
Runnin this racket, from New York to Montego
Slaughtering people, bring a ton of keys from Puerto Rico
I'd rather be feared than loved because the fear lasts longer
These bitch-ass niggas know we stronger than these weaklings
Seeking for respect that ain't there
Knuckleheads beware, there's mad tension in the air
Tommy guns for fun, shotties for block parties
While fresh lead heats up your insides like a fifth of Bacardi
Call the ambulette, this man's wet
Bullets cut him down from the root up just like a Gillette
Razor—which I keep hidden in my oral
Ready to spat out at any adult that wants to quarrel
These feds want me for some tax evasion
Mad at the fact that somebody's getting lucci that's not Caucasian
Bullets be blazing through these streets filled with torture
Joey Crack a.k.a. Keyser Söze

[Verse 4: Foxy Brown]
What the deal, pop? Ugh
Thug niggas give they minks to chinks, tore down
We sip drinks, rockin' minks, flashin' rings and things (On the real)
Frontin' hardcore deep inside the Jeep, mackin'
Doin' my thing, fly nigga, you a Scarface king (Ugh)
Bitches grab ya ta-tas, get them niggas for they cheddar
Fuck it, Gucci sweaters and Armani leathers (Ugh)
Flossin' rocks like the size of Fort Knox
Four carats, the ice rocks, pussy bangin' like Versace locs, pops (So what the deal)
Wanna creep? Open like raw asscheeks
I'm sexin' raw-dog without protection, disease infested, ugh!
Italiano got the Luccianno
I gets down, fuckin' with Brown, Fox, extra keys to the drop
Boo, I'm jingling, baby (Ugh, yeah yeah)
I got crazy Dominicans who pay me to lay low, I play slow
Roll with The Firm, Mafioso crime kingpin
It all real, nigga, what the deal? I shot ya!

[Verse 5: LL Cool J]
What the fuck? I thought I conquered the world
Crushed Moe Dee (Ugh), Hammer, and Ice-T's girls
But still, niggas want to instigate shit
I'll battle any nigga in the rap game quick
Name the spot, I make it hot for you bitches
Female rappers too, I don't give a fuck, boo
Word, I'm here to crush all my peers
Rhymes of the month in The Source for twenty years
Niggas scared, I'm detrimental to your mental state
I use my presidential Rolex to be the bait
Niggas fight, Glock cocked, ya temple gets fucked
MCs that fuck with LL, they gets bucked
That's real, what's up with that "I Shot Ya" deal?
Light shit, niggas slip, now, how the bullet feel?
New York'll peel, in L.A., they gangbang
But if you touch a mic, your motherfuckin ass hang
That's facts, niggas don't receive no type of slack
'Cause if they do (Ugh), they ass is always runnin' back (Yeah)
Not this time, but next time, I'ma name names
L.L., shitting from on top of the game
I shot ya!