Gilmore’s Lyrics by Lloyd Banks
Yea, Whoooooooooooooooooo
You niggas know what time it is
It’s time for that gangsta shit
We ain’t got shit to live for
Either you’re headed for the pen or you’re on your way to Gilmore
In the middle of the real war
Cause a five dollar bill is the shit niggas kill for
I make a million out yeah
I don’t care about a muthafucka out there
My heart cold and my wrist rock
You could fuck around and die over Hip-Hop
I treat a dollar like a mill, counting every bill
Cause if I don’t watch mine another muthafucka will
I went double but I still tuck the steel
I’m the truth, why the fuck you think 50 cut the deal
Rawer than a bag of D when you cut the seal
When I bling the paint job on a Coupe De Ville
I ain’t never had a pop, poppa never had a son
Nobody to go get, so I ain’t never run
They chat behind my back but they quiet when I come
They treat a lil’ nigga like a giant with a gun
I walk with a swagger like I always had money
Cause I know, they rather see my black ass bummy
Ain’t nothing funny just a whole lot of anger
Mind of a leader, drama of a gangbanger
If a nigga come on property I ain’t going to call
There’ll be a splatter on your shirt, and it ain’t paintball
We ain’t got shit to live for
Either you’re headed for the pen or you’re on your way to Gilmore
In the middle of the real war
Cause a five dollar bill is the shit niggas kill for
I make a million out yeah
I don’t care about a muthafucka out there
My heart cold and my wrist rock
You could fuck around and die over Hip-Hop
I don’t follow no rules I’m getting in here with the town
And if I don’t, we going to burn this muthafucka down
I’m coming thru swinging like they do in H-Town
And I roll down the window and spin you bitch face around
I’m a stunner, hogging up the lane like the Hummer
Till the wheel run dry like the rain in the summer
Even the broke nigga can’t afford to go to sleep
Fuck around and get your head popped all over the street
And I ain’t got nothing for them but the heat
My lil’ brother want jewelry and Jordan’s on his feet
Now, they recognize if you slaughtering the beat
And if it wasn’t for rapping, I’d have your daughter on the street
I been the same since Kane and Slick Rick had it
Now niggas die in the car, my whole whip had it
I worked too hard to let a nigga have it
So I pack the Automatic for the sideline static, Yea
We ain’t got shit to live for
Either you’re headed for the pen or you’re on your way to Gilmore
In the middle of the real war
Cause a five dollar bill is the shit niggas kill for
I make a million out yeah
I don’t care about a muthafucka out there
My heart cold and my wrist rock
You could fuck around and die over Hip-Hop