[Intro]
These tears are no longer for you baby
These tears are no longer for you baby
Heatmakers, crack music

[Pre-verse: Fred the Godson]
It's Gordo!

[Verse 1: Fred the Godson]
Trade led with Fred, we can turn it Beirut
Get head in your bed, fingers all in your bae roots (Haha)
She wildin’ off, I'm like a shot of that Grey Goose
Don't care for my eclairs, lick a shot at ya grey goose
The illest to illustrate it
The realest if skill’s debated (That's true)
Still they hated, like, "Fuck your lyricism"
Ten forty belows, constructive criticism
Gordo, **** Joell
Go slow, gas blow, oh well
Gettin' that cake, cash and love, gotta go to the scale
On a plate, mask and gloves, I ain't go to Modell's
Fiends in Hell, stuff went well
Before I was workin' with Lil' Puffs like Andre Harrell
This is for my hood n***as waitin' on a cell
All my n***as up north with they weight up in the cell
I’m God
[Chorus: Method Man, Joell Ortiz & Fred the Godson]
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, th-th-three, two, murder one lyric at your door
Let one of these n***as act up and I’ma (Murder one)
I wish a n***a would jump so I could (Murder one)
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, th-th-three, two, murder one lyric at your door
Let one of these n***as act up so I could (Murder one)
I wish a n***a would jump and I'ma (Murder one)

[Verse 2: Joell Ortiz]
Uh, wait up though
Was on that corner on the crate before The Wake Up Show
Thirty two back, only cooked twenty eight up though
I ain’t just blow, straight up, I had straight up blow
Technos and Jojos, no Jacob glow
Bright goals and fo-fo's lift your face up, bro
I could tell the kind of stories you can't make up though
Being myself allowed me to fuck them make-up hoes
You could have this bitch back, I ain't gon’ take your hoe
Just know if the pussy good that we gon' break up slow
Haha, I write hits and buy kicks
Fly shit and I ain't never been inside Kif
I might be trippin' but I feel like these n***as forgot
Let me remind 'em like rewinding the Kennedy shot (blagh)
I'm still Muhammed with the word vomit
This cash is heavy as clay in my jean pocket
[Chorus: Method Man, Joell Ortiz & Fred the Godson]
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, th-th-three, two, murder one lyric at your door
Let one of these n***as act up and I'ma (Murder one)
I wish a n***a would jump so I could (Murder one)
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, th-th-three, two, murder one lyric at your door
Let one of these n***as act up so I could (Murder one)
I wish a n***a would jump and I'ma (Murder one)