Letras Idioma: English Cantautores: Burt Bacharach, Christopher Wallace, Hal David, Ostin Harvey
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The Notorious B.I.G.Warning Letras:
Pick up the phone
Who the fuck is this?
Pagin' me at 5:46 in the mornin', crack at dawnin'
Now I'm yawnin', wipe the cold out my eye
See who's this pagin' me and why
It's my nigger pop from the barbershop
Told me he was in the gamblin' spot and heard the intricate plot
All niggaz wanna stick me like fly paper neighbor
Slow down love, please chill, drop the caper
Remember them niggaz from the hill up in Brownsville?
That you rolled dice with
Smoked the blunts and got nice with
Yeah my nigga Fame up in Prospect
Nah them my niggas, nah love wouldn't disrespect
I didn't say them
They schooled me to some niggas
That you knew from back when
When you was clockin' minor figures
Now they heard you blowin up like Nitro
When they gonna stick the knife
Through your windpipe slow
So thank Fame for warnin' me 'coz now I'm warnin' you
I got the Mac, nigga
Tell me what you gonna do
Damn! Niggas wanna stick me for my papers
Damn! Niggas wanna stick me for my papers
Damn! Niggas wanna stick me for my papers
Damn! Niggas wanna stick me for my papers
They heard about the Rolexes and the Lexus
With the Texas license plate outta state
They heard about the pounds
You got down in Georgetown
And they heard you got half of Virginia locked down
They even heard about the crib
You bought your Moms out in Florida
The fifth corridor
Call the Coroner
There's gonna be a lot of slow singin'
And flower bringin'
If my burglar alarm starts ringin'
Whatcha think all the guns is for?
All purpose war, got the Rottweilers by the door
And I feed them gun powder, so they can devour
The criminals tryin' to jock my decimals
Damn! Niggas wanna stick me for my cream
And it ain't a dream, things aint always what it seems
It's the ones that smoke blunts wit'cha
See your picture
Now they wanna grab their guns and come and getcha
Bet'cha Biggie won't slip
I got the Calico with the Black Talons loaded in the clip
So I can rip through the ligaments
Put the fuckers in the bad predicament
Where all the foul niggas went
Touch my Cheddar, feel my Beretta
Buck when I'm a hit you with it
You motherfuckers betta duck
I bring pain, bloodstains on what remains
Of this jacket, he had a gun he should'a packed it
Cocked it, extra clips in my pocket
So I can reload and explode down your asshole
I fuck around and get hardcore
C 4 to your door, no beef no more, nigga
Feel the rough, scandalous
The more weed smoke I puff, the more dangerous
I don't give a fuck about you or your weak crew
What you gonna do when Big Poppa comes for you
I am not runnin' nigga I bust my gun in
Hold on I hear somebody comin'
(Shhh!
C'mon motherfucker
I'm only comin' pass the gate
Just come here, motherfuckin' asshole, come on
We getting close, huh?
Just right over here
Are you sure this Biggie Small's crib man?
Yeah I'm sure motherfucker, c'mon!
Ahh fuck, it better be his motherfuckin' house
Fuck right here
This better be his motherfucker's house
Oh shit!
What, what's wrong?
What's that red dot on your head man?
What red dot?
Oh shit!
You got a red dot on your head too!
Ohh, shit!)
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