FAT JOE lyrics : "Preacher On A Sunday Morning"
Kilka, kills mania,
Get used to this one,
Oh yeah I'm back on that shit
And I say right about now New York City.
They say is life and death, there's no future fronting.
I see a mac and a tec keeping duz coming
Joe is a fake Cartagegna
Nice with the hands better with the banger.
Guns I'm no stranger
Keep an A.K when I battle probably throw a fake nigga parade. I'm known!
But who gives a fuck I don't care.
Don't lead them let the welfare feed them.
Niggas had me thinking that Joey is fucked up!
Skiddles with the maybachs banging rooftops.
Life sucks for you maybe the Jew is crazy
In the stay pieces to death thanks to who baby.
Stay cleaned up on a preacher on a sunday morning, I got cake but I need more ice and alle
I say off the streets I'm a symphony, niggas want my sympathy presiding official remedy,
Stay cleaned up on a preacher on a sunday morning,
King of New york, King of New York, but we don't ever see these niggas up in New york
Can anybody tell me where centropey
All these so called killers try their best to dress gay.
Everybody beefing it's the same old day.
All these mixtape rappers now want to claim king
Everybody saying they are bringing New Yor back
But we the only niggas you pitch back the back (crack!)
You hear the echo, son of a nesto I'll let the tec blow
You should feel sky plenty like pistol, fuck a phone call I barely got a whistle
Coka, there's no one harder
Get off your knees get a job at the carter.
Throw a banks and invite your friends,
Yougarentee to see a couple of ends.
See I've been getting money since who knows when
These other niggas just all pretend
You've been bamboozled diz duzu say thugs
Love at madison square they givin group hugs
Now let me take you to the streets of darkness,
Where I keep your favourite mc underneath my armpit the bronze kid.
I'm only speaking the truth,
Shit, look what these streets
May cologilua do
Thanks to guest