Luyện nghe bài hát We Made It

Make me pop sumthin', no champagne
Two-five on me, and crack on me
Bitch tried to get a rep' off me
Leave him there, know, get him off me
I remember days when we just bitches
Bought a lot of clothes and, the ave
Now we rap with a lot of wardrobes
And if we want a nigga we pay the cash
I ain't tryin to my career on y'all
scuffle with y'all, waste gear on y'all
But if I go out, you know I'mma show out
You fuck around and get your whole back blown out
I on the Island, can't tone out
The hall crawler, about to zone out
Dumb motherfuckers our microphone out
We just dumb motherfuckers our microphone out

See me
I roll with Ghost and cats carry they toast
Make the Post, front page and,
When it's time to off them things, it ain't a game man
We rocked out own diamond rings, see them 'Bling,
Got big boy toys, push
Dime bitches, y'all before we import those
stay froze, court cases get closed
Niggas hate cuz how fast I rose up
George Jefferson and em, steppin on em
The headline read, "Starks had the on em"
The best, what expect? He a vet
the best, now tell me how we gon' fail
When we dealin with 'Supreme

From Rikers Island to the Island
We thugs like, life is the challenge
Do the knowledge, recognize your
And if you the streets, you better stay silent
From Rikers to the Cayman Island
We like, life is the same challenge
Do the knowledge, recognize your
And if you the streets, you better stay silent

Yo, spotted at The Mirage, Ghostface swarmed by
amongst stars, I come in cat, invades Mars
Highlight of the century, first bet placed entry
Fainted when the mentioned me
Keep ballin, new systems, sciences
Drop that, Ghost listenin, track
Angelica, Plum for bitches, Goines king of the century
Best sellers for niggas, together
up trucks, leanin on the Benz
Cinemax smile shot in thrity-five
You program, broke of Dom
Seven bangles, back breakers
I'm a dope fiend, at my arm, Popeye strength
Rap with a British accent, clothes
Coles in the latest fashions
Blow backs in, flip raps fourty-eight bundles
Dinner plates, front gates, celeb Bryant Gumbel

This shit like Deniro, words in your center earhole
Blocks of ice like Sub-Zero, we been right since day
Shatter your soul like glass
virgins to nymphos, pop these hollows at fake cats in a Tahoe
Wild out, throw your liquor bottles at hood rats to the models
We conversate Christ and the twelve apostles
life without you, can't count you as great men
Murderers in the state pen', caged in
The wages of sin, they read up they pop our tape in
You gotta tuck you chain in cuz here we want the head of Satan
and our pants hangin