Testi Think Differently - Cannibal Ox, CASUAL, Tragedy

Think Differently

It go, gangsta-gangsta, thug, killa\nI’m the black panther that shot the drug dealer\nI live on the block, where dudes bust they knocks\nRide on top of the car, they crush they rocks\nNiggas hop my fence, to run from cops\nSee I’m a nigga too, so I know how niggas do\nKeep it real, you should let that bullshit silence\nYou only been involved in domestic violence\nNigga, I chase Remis with Long Islands\nCatch us in the club, doing them long, wiling\nThe microphone marvelous, this Marvin Haggler\nIt’s so obvious, in the lobby, suave and dressed\nWhere the party is? Round trip, flight to LaGuardia\nNobody dodge, when we walk through the audience\nDolo, with more dough to blow though\nFor sure though, slide one deep in a four door\nI’m poor though, catch me rocking a Lisa Lobo\nBump yo ho, I want more to the boatload\nAnd the Pope can’t save your soul, what I unfold\nWas written in gold, hieroglyphic Egyptian scroll\nStreets I’ve been in, from the beginning I’m a legend\nNever flee up from my enemies, shots I’m sending\nMusical martyr like John Lennon, from the beginning\nSpit with a vengeance, semi-automatic weapon repping\nCalm stop, warlock like David Geffen\nBlowin' ox', like oxygen, out of my nostrils\nSeen brave men, fight for they honor and even die\nTwo gorgeous divas, blowing the heaters down the ride\nTo the, end of the earth, through hell, water and fire\nQueens Messiah, camouflage black attire\nMagnum opus, top five, dead or alive\nThe feds focus my militants, swervin' the lotus\nMossberg in the hostess, I write it then release it\nThen I, bless the street, giving birth to soldiers\nRolls gold, King Tut piece, flooded with boulders\nI praise Allah, make this a lot, facing the east\nThis is for them black and white babies, starving to eat, Think Differently\nPoverty stricken, fried chicken, fly rhyme kicking\nBlind visions from the mind’s wisdom, in this crime religion\nNiggas listen, what I’m spitting is hard as prison\nBenches in the trenches, grym intentions, twin Doberman pinchers\nLeather trenches, lead drenches for brat endless\nGats eleven inches, ya neck slit it, your head spin it\nThe epidemic was spread infinite, so once the thread is knitted\nFor seven digits, it’s just business, no disrespect intended\nTo he who feel offended, a beat down cannot be prevented\nBig hit it, the game I’m deep in it, until my Yankee fitted\nSwitch three, be hanging niggas, squeeze three eighty triggers\nUsed to fuck my babysitters, now I whip Mercedes-Benz'\nI stand alone, cause I’m grown, for me to crush the Walkman\nGang lover supporter, of any sort, when I’m New York\nRollin' for dolo, the Willie Bobo gotta go bro\nWord to JoMo, the kid in the polo, got the world in a yo-yo\nYour happy meal skills is still, no frills\nCook ckrills, sign deals, when you see me, just kneel\nOr rocking mills, your hospital bill\nBlood from your nostril spill, it’s not looking well\nWhen I lick off shots, the hostages yell\nChopper fell like ox tail, your optic’s swell\nNinjas with blades, raised from jungles of wolves\nIn hoods, where hammers bark and the tennis spark\nPolice on radar, so we stay fogged up\nPuffin' blunts, sippin' Goose, and damage\nGod Damn it’s hard, but still, we gettin' by like rhino’s\nOnes that peel, crucified on the Earth, for guns and needles\nNine inches, hurt, I cause stitches, build\nWith Gods on track, suffering visible scars, it’s hard to relax\nReady to spaz, no weed, thirst for cash, times moving fast\nWe like cheaters with masks, lighting cheeba and hash\nTryin' to balance the steps, screaming, we need freedom\nTired of bleeding, where ego’s let out of evil\nTown is of death, no time for weakness\nHigher heights to reach, advance the concrete\nWith iron feet… Annotate