Ghostface Killah, U-God, Raekwon - Rec-Room Therapy lyrics

A'ight, now, this is how we gon' do this shit
You know'm sayin'? Niggas wasn't out
In the streets back then
When was doing this shit son
You know what I mean? yeah, check the story

I done flushed bags of
Powder down project toilets
You could of found of me on the steps dusted
Unable to call it
Jums in my pocket, the rental was stolen
Tapping pockets on the local drug dealers
Just to see what they holding i know
Niggas with crack viles stuck to they colon
The acid, done bubbled up
Now they stomachs is swollen
That just, life in the hood, ceramic glass
Who we bag in our stash
The ultraviolet haze, we hit it and pass
We toast to the Ghost of old days, yeah
Old ager huh
We rap renegades, must stay paid get money
(get money) Get money, Ghost (get money)
Get money
(get money) Get money, Ghost (get money)

Big fluffed out gooses on, Stan Smiths
The housing cops can suck our dicks, we
Jumping out of convertible matchbox shit's
Next drip inhaling
Chilling, my throat frozen, my orange brick
Bottles of Cru', bitches with Baby Phats
They swinging ax
They singing, you still blinging, daddy
Now bring it back
To smoke these rap niggas, honey
I'mma need a match
To bust the game wide open, I'mma need an ax
I juggle this, practice
Smuggle heroin in the cactus
Keep it hood, I still go and fuck a fat bitch
Actress, slinging the backs
Of five Cleopatras
A cocaine Chef, I stretch money like elastic
Nigga my raps is bigger
Dynamics with the muscle advantage
Jay Cutler on dust, when I blam shit

Yo, we been bagging since 18, kid
Polo rugs on with gloves on
Rented cars, fronting on winning broads
Gum slow, half moon, leather pants
Avia' days
Keep your hands off my blunt and my waves
Benetton, Superman bomb, everybody
In the lobby, we clapping
Hats on, protecting your moms
You know how we play
Spray something down if the team say
It's on, I dedicate my lines to the PJ's
Triple beams, Pyrex jars
Smoking nickle weeds
All we did is look mad fly, icicle rings
Whatever homeboy
You want it? You could get your receipt
A little closer, you can sense we got heat
It's only me
Plus four other ill gangstas, we all anxious
To blow up your block and spank shit

Yo, I'm down for the get down, hit the town
Sick the bloodhounds on 'em
I rip clowns, I flip pounds, I spit rounds
I'm on the prowl, my stomach growl
Crushed by the crowd
Rush through Loud Records
Drop mushroom clouds
I'm not a rat, I'm spellbound, I melt down
Your G-Force, with heat walks
Free falling to a bed of money
Bet he's hungry
Spread the honey, big head inside the Humvee
Mix lead inside my lungies
Spend bread on my Dungarees
And such and such
Ghost plugged me with this slut
Bitch, don't hug me, bug me
I'm ugly when I fuck
I'm hard like a jungle hunter
Bust off in Heather
Double cross me, lift your
Boss off your feet, 'course he's feather
Whatever, whatever, he cried in the Benz
Tennis players get fried
Playing both sides of the ends
Keep your eyes on your friends
Cuz they spy for the feds
Watch me rise from the dead
I got ties with the dreads