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The Best Out lyrics
(feat. Hell Rell, JR Writer, 40-Cal)
[Intro:]
Hell Rell
Okay,okay,okay
yes sir
Hell Rell,
J R Writer(Forty)
This is how we do it
I am one of a kind(yeah)
Its now or never nigga
Times up muthafucka
Lets do this
[Hell Rell:]
Ayo I stop paying for coke, get bricks on the muscle
Gorillas on they bullshit welcome to the jungle
Fiends get served in the hallway, welcome to the hustle
Where bitches do anything for a hit of that glass dick,
When Im outta town, nothing less than a half brick,
One-Sixty on the dash nothing less than a fast whip,
I floss when its sunny, got money for a rainy day,
in the dope spot a few blocks from where the Yankees play,
Man Im heavy in that BX borough, we aint gotta front for nobody,
we just through, and Im sittin on an arsenal, rockets and the missiles,
took my advance and got my strip poppin with them nickels.
And when Im in ya neighborhood, you gotta go high,
deliver bullets to ya door like a domino pies nigga,
say hello to my little friend like scarface,
I pull that fuckin rifle right out at the target
[Chorus:]
Dipset, the best out, Hell Rell, he fresh out
Jones the kuffe smacker, he bringing them techs out
sporty-style, Forty Cal, he bringing corvettes out
Bezel the Beast but I still show you what fresh bout
you know who shavin the grams, forty-k on the hand
kill a nigga, what more can I say about Cam,
J R the Writer of writers and Santana,
back like cooked crack
he even supplying suppliers
[JR Writer:]
Dipset, lets do it man
The type that im tighter, tight cause im writer
write cause im nicer, site for the lifers
knifes in the cipher, writers a viper,
listen this is butter,
even ringling brothers say i got the eye of the tiger
before i met killa cam, i was dealing killa grams
i mean killer grams, throws a tan, fill a pan
recorded in the hole, where you couldn’t chill or stand
no booth, microphone hangin off the ceiling fan
mass million fan sittin in the belly hilton
watch how i heavy kills him, bessey,chevy,desi fill em
but i still aint break a sweat, yes Im chillin,
Veet wong, seat wrong, tito gonna bet the building
I been grind to lean, sniff lines for fiends,
grams chopped, tan rock, I pitch lima beans
Piff grind was mean, had em dumb stuck,
so when i say uncut, i dont mean behind the scenes
[Chorus]
[40 Cal:]
Yo Im a NY Gee like Jeremy Shockey,
come through drop my coupe like i meant to be sloppy
I got DJ's kickin karate,
cause they through my wax on
take your wax off like Mr.Miaki
Pimpin, Im cocky, I slap your broad on the cheek
and send her home barefooted, you massaging her feet
you probably go down on a freak, your hardly a meat
but we aint mad cause your proving, you are what you eat
your squadron is weak, speak and get a broken something
we the plate in ya grill like a toaster over, fuck it
they even got dojas frontin, shakin your cola
only time your coke was bubbling cousin
Cal get weight wit no problemo
ride around ya block sellin out the car window
and ya moms been know, that I chop rocks
that make your father cop like Carl Winslow
[Chorus]
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