Kick In The Door

Album: Life After Death (1997)
  • Your reign on the top was short like leprechauns
    As I crush so-called willies, thugs, and rapper-dons
    Get in that ass, quick fast, like ramadan
    Its that rap phenomenon Don-Dadda, fuck Poppa
    You got ta, call me, Francis M.H. White
    In tank-light totes, tote iron
    Was told in shootouts, stay low, and keep firin
    Keep extra clips for extra shit
    Who's next to flip, on that cat with that grip on rap
    The mo shady, "Tell em!", Frankie baby
    Ain't no telling where I may be
    May see me in D.C. at Howard Homecoming
    With my man Capone, dumbing, fucking something
    You should know my steelo
    Went from ten G's for blow to thirty G's a show
    To orgies with hoes I never seen before
    So, Jesus, get off the Notorious
    Penis, before I squeeze and bust
    If the beef between us, we can settle it
    With the chrome and metal shit
    I make it hot, like a kettle get
    You're delicate, you better get, who sent ya?
    You still pedal shit, I got more rides than Great Adventure
    Biggie, "How are you gonna do it?"

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    On ya mark, get set, when I spark, ya wet
    Look how dark it get, when ya marked with death
    Should I start your breath should I let you die
    In fear you start to cry, ask why
    Lyrically, I'm worser, don't front the word sick
    You cursed it, but rehearsed it
    I drop unexpectedly like bird shit
    You herbs get, stuck quickly for royalties and show money
    Don't forget the publishing, I punish em, I'm done with them
    Son, I'm surprised you run with them
    I think they got cum in them, cause they, nothing but dicks
    Trying to blow up like nitro and dynamite sticks
    Mad I smoke hydro rock diamonds, that's sick
    Got pay off my flow, rhyme with my own click
    Take trips to Cairo, laying with yo bitch
    I know you praying you was rich, fucking prick
    When I see ya I'ma

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    Kick in the door, waving the four-four
    All you heard was Poppa don't hit me no more

    This goes out for those that choose to use
    Disrespectful views on the King of NY
    Fuck that, why try, throw bleach in your eye
    Now ya Braille in it, stash that light shit, or scalin it
    Conscience of ya nonsense in eighty-eight
    Sold more powder than Johnson and Johnson
    Tote steel like Bronson, vigilante
    You want to get on son, you need to ask me
    Ain't no other king in this rap thing
    They siblings, nothing but my children
    One shot, they disappearing
    Its ill when, MC's used to be on cruddy shit
    Took home, Ready to Die, listened, studied shit
    Now they on some money shit, successful out the blue
    They light weight, fragilly, my nine milly
    Make the white shake, that's why my money never funny
    And you still recouping, stupid Writer/s: CHRISTOPHER E MARTIN, JAY HAWKINS, CHRISTOPHER WALLACE, Christopher Martin
    Publisher: Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
    Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind

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