Re-Up Gang - Daytona 500 Lyrics

Songwriter: No Malice Pusha T Sandman Ab-Liva

Producer: RZA

[Intro: Sandman]
One two, y’all
One two, y’all
One two, y’all
Yeah, Cannooon (Dig it)

[Verse One: Sandman]
Am I ever so ready?
Flow heavy, gon’ break the Richter scale
We up, Re-Up, got that in, raw and thin
Underground, bin by bin and in tin by tin

[Verse Two: Pusha T]
Turned will into drive to win, into the wheel
That the driver’s in, speed cracker, pink neck
Like lobster skin, open the door
The R-E-U-P emerges, the royal four

[Verse Three: Ab-Liva]
Crown prince, head wizard to the oils of ore [?]
Became accustomed to the spoils of war
Blue light special, cop for the low-low
Customary top is a no-no, Medina hot-stepping on Manolos

[Verse Four: Malice]
If you ain’t got mojo with oatmeal interior
The rarest of diamonds, mined in Nigeria
The fairest of them all, you can ask the mirror
Driver’s side of that GT, it couldn’t be clearer

[Verse Five: Sandman]
Haters, don’t hear ‘em, cross me, won’t spare ‘em
Shots tear ‘em apart, the pallbearer
Wakes, et cetera, cape, irregular, fate
Competitors face berettas, tryna stay ahead of us

[Verse Six: Pusha T]
Platinum bezel and band, man, that’s just the regulars
Just another reason to make them hoes treasure us
Admiring the splendor, scared ‘cause she remember
How a dope dealer had ruined the life of Kemba

[Verse Seven: Ab-Liva]
I was on with a blender and I was gone ’til November
And I was torn but I render, ’cause I was lured by the tender
The money, the cars, the fame, the bitches, the name
The glistening chain, the wrist blitzing the game, I’m frostbit

[Verse Eight: Malice]
Like it ain’t cost shit, you see what’s on the wrist
Put it to your ear, nigga, you don’t hear it tick
All you hear is *click* fucking with the clique
Like the Louie chess board, re-up is the court shit

[Verse Nine: Sandman]
Man, fuck that horseshit, the hardships, I been through ‘em
Brazilians and Benzes, I spend through ‘em
Chameleon, I blend in as hog shit
Black Card shit, pussy, that’s that bomb shit

[Verse Ten: Pusha T]
Pour Cris down her throat ’til the whore sick
Yellow rappers hit the floor, give ‘em jaundice
The fondest flows, an arm that glows
Four niggas in a row, ’86, pompous pose

[Verse Eleven: Ab-Liva]
Street-smart savvy, no conscious flows
I sell shit, nigga, to taunt your nose, the man, the music
The making, the king, the crown, the heir
My spot is sewed, take my place, nigga, ‘pon the throne

[Verse Twelve: Malice]
The game has grown, the charters have flown
South Beach Miami, where we toast Patron
The home with the statue, etched marble stone
Ship kis to the states via Boca Raton

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