Uhh, uhh...
Uhh, uhh...
M.O.P. in the house, kid.
BLAU! You know what I'm sayin? Check this out.
Lil Fame's a trigga nigga.
Billy Danze a trigga nigga.
Aight? Keepin' it real.
Brownsville, still nigga.

Lil Fame, a young ass nigga wit' talent;
Thug that move silent, but still remain violent.
The Brownsville slugger take the M-1 it's truth.
General of this hit game, clak, clak, salute.

Billy Danze, index finger exerciser,
Bell ringer, gun slinger, survivor.
Raise your right and I'll blaze the living proof;
The godfather to truth, clak, clak, salute.

Since we came here we got to show and prove
The M.O.P. is rugged, never smooth.
We tearin' this shit down, just like construction.
Flip like kilos, with this Primo production.

No doubt, hit 'em wit' that hilltop flavor.
Hardcore niggas on your doorstep neighbor.
And this year, here, niggas can't compare.
Spectators, haters, 'cause we're fuckin with Premier.

Fillin' 'em up wit' raps, in fact they can't get wit'
A code red; the dope shit, got you niggas addicted.
Mr. Danzenie and the Fame stayin' true to this game.
Since you nice was that hip hop gangsta.
M.O.P. guaranteed to keep bringin' this dopeness
For the real thugs and ghetto niggas slingin' toasters.
On all coastses, north to south, east to west;
Got high clientele for shit you least expect.

M.O.P. from the hill kid, what you tryin' to tell me?
Still grippin mo' steel, a machine gun deli.
I mention, and flinching, and waitin' for you to duck the gate,
And sellin' shit that I won't tolerate.
WSUP?! My whole team's in the house.
The gat is 1-5-4-5, not four 5's in your fucking mouth.
Same ones, burner on blaze.
Fuck a memory, y'all remember me for bustin' my thang...

Writer : MARTIN, CHRISTOPHER E/GRINNAGE, JAMAL GERARD/MURRY, ERIC
Copyright : Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing