The Steiners - Westside Gunn, eLZhi

El don’t hold punches, this that flying fists of fury

You wish I had no leg to stand on with no podiatrist to cure me

My life was like Eggs Benedict, crème brûlée to slam today

Tomorrow’s lobster macaroni, clam souffle and

Those truly wack, who swear they got the crown get their rubies jacked

My dogs’ll smack you up like a Scooby Snack

He face major or minimum slaughter

I wouldn’t hold my breath swimming in water

Wanna stay winning more than women wants a feminine daughter

Or men who wants a masculine son

To teach how to shoot baskets and guns for fun

You in the presence of a Jedi, gypsy read my palm and said

I’d make it past the age that most thought that I’d be dead by

That’s one year shy of the GOAT, born out in Bedstuy

And years after these artists overdosing off a med high

Ruined your dance, spoil your whole night, what’s in my loose leaf

Is hitting hard like it was rolled tight, something you shouldn’t take light

Different from what the fake write, similar to a snake bite

You rather me slow up and see my brake lights, then make flights

From Detroit to Buffalo, puffing 'dro

You in bad shape like my toughest fro

I’m well rounded like David Ruffin’s fro

Cuffing your main squeeze before my plane leave

I’m so cold, she slurp me up and catch a brain freeze

Then I stroke and smack it in a smokin' jacket

Oakland macking on some Coke and Yak shit

Boom boom boom boom boom

Ayo, .45 shells popping out, straight drilling shit

Lagerfield rocking head to toe, in the lemon six

PJ spilling, still a fish in the Fisker (skr)

Dragged it through SoHo, right in front of Kith (boom boom boom)

Reminiscing in my cell, I used to have the block clicking

Duffle bag full of hollow points was the mission (ah)

Ran up on him at his momma’s house, gave him the business (boom boom boom boom

boom)

He tried to give me 30 counterfeit for a chicken

No, no, no, no, three quarters Balenciagas

These never dropping, don’t even bother

Tied gloves on the chopper, Stone Island fishing

Then jump off brick, what I call a thousand dollar lineups

Chill, I done sold bricks for real

I took a pay cut when I signed my deal

This for the culture, you wouldn’t understand my sculpture

Uh, this feeling is torture, I’m ultra

Rhyming well, Blientele

Before I rat, I’d rather fry in Hell

What you know about laundry bags filled with mail

20 stamps’ll make you a book

You never ran the phone, you niggas was shook

You never ran the phone, you niggas was shook