Fes Taylor - Moneta Lyrics

[Fes Taylor:]
This ain't an intro, this is rap terrorism
Make sure you got Two 4 blasting in your system
Turn tracks to victims, mask on, stick 'em up
Yeah give it up, before the paramedics pick you up
From the cold concrete, drop bombs on your feet
I be palming the heat, act calm in the streets
Till it jump off, why you wanna make me act crazy
They be telling police all about, hoping they cage me
Snitches get stitches, always been a rude, growing up
Nowadays put you in a grave, soon as I get cuffed
One officer got snuffed, resisting arrest
You think I'm going peacefully? I don't give a f*ck who you are
Show me respect, blow you like breath from a dying man
For the OG's who'll probably die in the can
These livewire lyrics the club be scared to play
Cause my hooks get the party popping, like AK's
So make way, part the crowd, let the kid through
If we got beef, for real, try to get rid of you
Hoes like visual arts, you see the ghetto through my eyes
Learn how to take pistols apart
Put them together, professional street thug MC's
Took it to the business level, now we seeing cheese
No books I wrote in, worth more than Mickey Mantle's card
I live life risky and leave it in the hands of God
Playa, it's Fes Taylor, top notch rapper
Grimey like stick-up kids and pocketbook snatchers

[Chorus: Fes Taylor]
Make money, get out hustle, bring dollars in
Take money, that's what my gangsta be hollaring
Get money, yeah, I need a whole lot of it
Flip money, so we'll never run out of it
Get it on, with whoever, whenever, for this cheddar
Wilding over Moneta, the more, the better

[Fes Taylor:]
I'm Fes Taylor, somebody that you can't avoid
If rapping's your job, about to live you unemployed
Unless you rolling with us, blowing a Dutch, know what's up
Everything you holding we crush, total your truck
Trying to get away, like f*ck, damn, them niggas found us
Put you with the founders, after the four pounders
Blood like water fountains, all on your trousers
For atleast fifteen ounces, I run up in houses
Two Forty Warriors, flood the projects
With narcotics, big pistols and sharp objects
Gatling Isle, N.Y., my hood be real
Like the lead MC from Cypress Hill, Park Hill
Streets is wild, hoes I pull 'em like root canals
Neighbors complain, chicks be moaning, so I keep the music loud
Break MC's down, before was only breaking the law
Moneta: The Album, presented by Two 4
Profes, the artist, Fes Taylor, the gangsta
Spit darts like no one else, that's why I'm ranked the
Number one soloist, rookie of the year, rap
All that hot shit you talking, the God hear that
Cars, jewels, houses and money, playa, where it at?
Niggas get buck fifties like they buying Air Max
Bubble your face up, Park Hill, lames keep they chains tucked
Cause they heard of us, Shaolin
We the Wolfpack Warriors, we be dumbing out
See me at your baby mother's house, coming out
Aiyo, I dart down raps, melt plastic all ways
I'm like, Bishop from Juice, pull out ratchets on friends
If you cross me, make the block hot like coffee
In front of your boys, you yelling 'get him off me'
The game's salty, tastes like seawater
Any MC slaughter, CEO's, blow trees with they daughters
Have 'em rocking WP headbands
And two shows in the pro-ho van, til they knees hurt
We creep through the dirt, Taylor put in work
Ride through your hood, next day, with a smirk, what up?
Heat first, coming through your door, one burst
Hit son, homicide, damn, yo, police thirst
Cursing out the judge, my niggas won't budge
We got a four hundred year old grudge, muthaf*cka...