Luyện nghe bài hát Clientele Kidd

(featuring Fat Joe, Ghostface & Polite)

[Intro:
Yo straight up last minute, you know time it is
up, yeah, yeah, yeah
Word up, blip blip blap blap
up?

[Hook x2:
Who don't know? They don't know, betta let 'em
There go, here we go

Aiyo Clientele
Layin in the crib gettin' ill money, those who 8 get gig
Got on and 4/5ths
Attractin' them niggaz I go against, the was his
One nasty unit of murderers, all type of Goons'll
Then four later they burgulars
I heard from the grapevine mine it
Elevate the name up, this gift reign and his game went up
And now stronger than ever, Nike jackets and Classics
Go against it and it's instant
He run things, gun Kings, check the joint the kid flyin' in
Crib in Africa with two
like the Prince of a jewel thief, so smack the millions
Came back wrapped it up, too
The is missin' somethin' unique
I put too to fall back on, I rather just sleep

x2: Polite]
CHEF! We designin', rhymin' with
CHEF! Ice Water, it was all in the
CHEF! He gave y'all bricks on consignment
CHEF! To the and he Billboard climbin'

Joe]
uh
Yo Don Carta' bomb harder over everybody
Very rarely you find me the mini-shotti
Just for Rae to give met he cue and
you see about 100 Puerto niggaz shootin'
Get down, lay down, we don't play
I know what you heard but, we don't play around
cooked coke, but look, but what the fuck happened?
How you the dope game to persue rappin'?
Already knowin' ya shit was trash
Breathin' on the mic when yo' click is ass
All we tryin' to do is dignity to rap
And you kiddin' me? I'm literally the epitome of
Uh, we much than y'all, Terre-error the Squad
My niggaz set it we get in the yard
Marcy or Comstock, triggers 'pon cock
Straight punch in ya lung and you niggaz drop

x2]

[Ghostface
Yo yo yo him in his mouth.. (nah)
Fuck him, get the tell Terry to pull the act up
Bring him to Rae warehouse, hang him from hooks then his ass
As lame as he he ready to cook (yeah)
And he pleadin' for mercy, bleedin' from his and he thirsty
The first we made him eat shit!
his wiz and I fucked his bitch
Made him watch me on the couch havin' fun his kids
So what hurts more: is it me showin' to ya fam?
Or you in the box under the floor?
Or keep you blow torchin' ya balls?
My chainsaw, ya bloods on my Scarface walls
Not even can clean that, Jack
We need that maintenace man shit that kill that greasy blood on
Finish you off 'cause I'm pressed for
Your man and 'em be next to die
Mothafucka!

x2]

x4]