"No Biggie" lyrics
[Regina King (B.I.G) {Doug Copsey}:]
Sinatra
(It was all a dream)
Platinum Chanel
{You are now watching a master at work}
No Biggie
Yeah, my name is Riley, son
But you know what niggas call me?
AKA, Riley Escobar, know what I'm saying?
'Cause I be in the streets you know?
I got all kinds of names like HR Paper Stacks
Uh, also known as AKA Horse Choker, uh
[Logic:]
Hey, yo, I'll chop you up in sixteen pieces
In front of your nieces, while I'm eating Reese's
And won't even offer them any, yes I spit plenty
This is East Coast flow at its finest
In the studio, where you find us, put a bullet where your spine is
At sixteen I was skipping school and smoking chronic
While you was learning about English, Big L was teaching Ebonics
I spit fire so demonic, writing code like I'm masonic
A Jedi master breaking it down like old plaster
No medication for this track 'cause this is how a psycho rips
My bank account is like casino vaults, your pockets microchips, uh
Motherfucker, I dare you to test it, hope you're well-rested
Whoop your ass and get arrested, in a double breasted
Louis Vuitton diamond encrusted tailor made suit
Now that's All Sinatra Everything
I explode like hollow tips on contact
Chronologically murder schmoe there's no bringing Joe back
Puffing Cubans and sipping Cognac
Mafietic mentality, introduce me to this beat and its fatality
I kill mics like Conrad Murray
Sharp like Hanzo steel, the rest is obtuse
I get loose when sipping Goose and rhyme like Doc Seuss
Flow tight like noose, whoop ass like Bruce, no time for a truce
Alphabetical mathematic addict
I spit sixteens so erratic you think it was a semi-automatic
I know by now you thinking "Oh my God, he let them have it"
But that was just a loan, time to collect like I'm Capone
Reap what I've sewn, in other words that is the throne
Chilling while homies smoking marijuan'
If you thinking that this shit is wack well then you're dead wrong
'Cause for every emotion and every mood I have a song
For the club, for the streets, for the whip and for the sheets
'Cause this is where intellect and versatility meets
I'm Young Sinatra, backstage chilling with BobbySoxers
I got ya
Yeah!
You wanna fuck with us?!
Fuck with us, yeah!?
Sinatra
(It was all a dream)
Platinum Chanel
{You are now watching a master at work}
No Biggie
Yeah, my name is Riley, son
But you know what niggas call me?
AKA, Riley Escobar, know what I'm saying?
'Cause I be in the streets you know?
I got all kinds of names like HR Paper Stacks
Uh, also known as AKA Horse Choker, uh
[Logic:]
Hey, yo, I'll chop you up in sixteen pieces
In front of your nieces, while I'm eating Reese's
And won't even offer them any, yes I spit plenty
This is East Coast flow at its finest
In the studio, where you find us, put a bullet where your spine is
At sixteen I was skipping school and smoking chronic
While you was learning about English, Big L was teaching Ebonics
I spit fire so demonic, writing code like I'm masonic
A Jedi master breaking it down like old plaster
No medication for this track 'cause this is how a psycho rips
My bank account is like casino vaults, your pockets microchips, uh
Motherfucker, I dare you to test it, hope you're well-rested
Whoop your ass and get arrested, in a double breasted
Louis Vuitton diamond encrusted tailor made suit
Now that's All Sinatra Everything
I explode like hollow tips on contact
Chronologically murder schmoe there's no bringing Joe back
Puffing Cubans and sipping Cognac
Mafietic mentality, introduce me to this beat and its fatality
I kill mics like Conrad Murray
Sharp like Hanzo steel, the rest is obtuse
I get loose when sipping Goose and rhyme like Doc Seuss
Flow tight like noose, whoop ass like Bruce, no time for a truce
Alphabetical mathematic addict
I spit sixteens so erratic you think it was a semi-automatic
I know by now you thinking "Oh my God, he let them have it"
But that was just a loan, time to collect like I'm Capone
Reap what I've sewn, in other words that is the throne
Chilling while homies smoking marijuan'
If you thinking that this shit is wack well then you're dead wrong
'Cause for every emotion and every mood I have a song
For the club, for the streets, for the whip and for the sheets
'Cause this is where intellect and versatility meets
I'm Young Sinatra, backstage chilling with BobbySoxers
I got ya
Yeah!
You wanna fuck with us?!
Fuck with us, yeah!?
