Fes Taylor - Pop Off Lyrics

[Fes Taylor:]
Y'all been hating for a long time, and I ain't said shit yet
What I gotta do to get respect
Pull out pistol on people, brought burners to battles
Rather resort to violence, then spit words, then at you
So if we go head up, I punch first, jab and hook
My pen's the fire, to any pad or book
Pieces of paper, turning to flame, return of the game
Make acid fall from the sky, burn when it rain
Murder you slang, Taylor'll bang like Hussein
A Wolf with two fangs, manuever with gangs
New York slang salesman, heat put a tan on your pale skin
You dumb f*cks, like Launchpad from TailSpin
Cops stay corrupt, play parts like Anthony Quinn
F*ck your man up, now tell me who the champion then
I play blocks like a stop sign, see me on every corner
Glock nine, I pop mine, bury the informer

[Chorus x2: Fes Taylor]
Everybody got a gun, but how many is really popping off
Everybody running in buildings, when villains popping off
It ain't safe for women and children, when it's popping off
Be a man, stop the talk and start popping off

[Fes Taylor:]
Hunger pains got my stomach touching my back
In my younger days, I was pumping crack, clutching my gat
I'm older now, so they expect me to hold it down
Go to war with police that patrol my town
Staten Isle, I'm straight from the livest borough
Disagree, oh yeah, you can die in your borough
You lie in a puddle, I fly in your shuttle, BMW
Z4, the law make you cry and you crumble
Gangstas humble, Wolf Pack's anxious to rumble
Warriorz'll jump you in the jungle, you hating, f*ck you
Middle finger to the sky, this year we getting bigger pieces of the pie
Tell my Visa, goodbye
I coughed alot, you leasing a 5, you fought from the top
Reach for the sky, hard on the block, you seak in disguise
Push the record buttong on your cassette decks
Made songs in the crib, with a mic and a handset

[Chorus x2]

[Fes Taylor:]
Yo, capital L, capital G, if I die or retire
You rappers'll be happy something happen to me
Nobody can't eat no more, til my belly full
Purple haze blunts, make me choke after every pull
No machete pull, got guns under heavy wool
Wintertime, jet ski's on the back, while the Chevy pull
Tahoe with Joey's finest, I'm Shaolin's grimiest
America's most wanted, you'll probably find me with
Product of Park Hill, NARC's tried to stick me with marked bills
So they can ship me, the art to kill, but
I move too swift, grown ass man with a two fifth
Playing with a child's gun, claiming you ruthless
This is true shit, Deck, what's good, my nigga?
This is 'The Movement', f*ck you with a pool stick
Like Gano D, 'In Too Deep', I've been through beef
Make the block hot, son, like central heat

[Chorus x2]