Black Market lyrics

[Talking]
The year is 1994
Black Market Records, 2001 Records, and Doomsday Productions
Combined forces to create an unfadable click
Make way for the hounds of the underground
Feel the fury, hahhaahaha

Verse 1: PIT
I put my hands in my pockets
They jiggle cus they fulla change
Sometimes bein broke make ya fall astray
But I got a better grip on myself
So I avoid gettin played short like a elf
Bust her side bust her in the head
Then watch all the yolk come runnin out his head
I'm tryin to stack a grip so dont let me hit this dank
Cus if I hit this dank, I'mma shoot me a b*tch
f*ck it, *puff*, bang bang
Five minutes later, the cops came
I'm settin up shop for the black market
So if I aim at your mark-ass youre a target
Told you that I'd come but I came insane
Born braincell killas, scramblin n*ggas brains
If you gotta go you gotta go I like the six-fo
I'm pullin GTA's, it ain't yo's no mo'
Then I take it and strip it down and leave nothin but the frame
Then I'm gonna sell my cousin the gold thangs
Cop a bird and turn it over like a flapjack
Mo money mo money for black market
Chorus: N-Control (4x)
On the black market, yeeeaah

Verse 2: Eklypss
Creepin move with swiftness in the dark
And ain't no stoppin, once a n*gga start
It ain't nothin new, up under the sun for days and days
Under the moon, is where I was born and raised
And doomed for life, n*gga this ain't no daylight
I love it, murderin muthaf*ckas in the night
A Doomsta ready to make his mark an underground target
Hooked up with black market now peep
sh*t gets deeper and deeper, meet me
The doomstown grim reaper, and PIT
Platnum, Mr. Doctor, Lynch Hung
We do your ass in good just for fun
Fifteen inches in your ass b*tch
Take it and love it, but I ain't talking bout no di*k
14 suns and moons, somethin you can assume
That on the 15th marks my day for doom
Buck em and f*ck em with doomsday productions
Eklypss'll trip if I catch you f*ckin with my grip
Youll find your ass dead in a graveyard
And I'mma continue on my ?

Verse 3: Brotha Lynch Hung
Well if you see me chewin baby guts locc, would ya choke
Or vomit when that teflon pierce that baby's throat?
Peep me eatin dead c*ck
Ya trip cause eatin dead pus*y clit, I'll make ya sick
But its that season so my reason is legit
I'm havin fits, I dream of eatin bloody pus*y clit, since I was 6
I've fiend for dead pus*y on my di*k, I got the schitz
Meanin I dont give a sh*t about yo biatch
That n*gga that's from the block killin off that c*ck
So n*gga, sheeeit; baby barbeque ribs and guts, and uh
Don't let me get to deep fryin baby nuts
sl*ts, get ate out like a ? them crooked teeth hurt
I pull that tampax string out and straight put in work
It wouldn't work without the sick
So page a n*gga quick so I can serve you some of that sh*t
And have you murderin your biatch, violently
I've been keyed for 20 minutes and feel like killin
Loadin that milli-milli its that infant killa
n*gga Lynch, Mr. Doc, D-O double M and hella heat
n*ggas unload, I need another dose of human meat
I live to creep, and black market death by the scene
As that n*gga that n*gga that nine millimeter punch you in yo spleen
Chorus: N-Control (4x)
On the black market, yeeeaah

Verse 4: Mr. Doctor & Brotha Lynch Hung
You lay yo eyes up on my 4-4
And notice every curve in my strap
As them tears roll down
Flash yo life as ya fade to black
If that gat wasn't all up in yo face
Reminisce of yo folks, yo b*tch, yo kids, yo fate
Replace, take it down to the soul, get deep
Think of moms at your funeral locc, and all ya family
Huh, its kind of crazy you could lose all of these things so quick
And whats worse, n*gga shot you for the f*ck of it, yeah
Never know I'd be the one to have your life in my hand
That Ruger 4-4 Mag
That n*ggas life won't last
Keep listenin while I guide right down into your throat
Dig that barrel in your neck, watch your b*tch-ass choke
No hope, no joke, Im savin you the pain of old age
All I ask for is yo muthaf*ckin grip in exchange
One to the brain, in the throat out the skull
From the big chrome gat, peeled cap, release your soul
Now ya n*ggas know, one mo dead muthaf*cka on the street
Fo the Mista Doc, locc
Straight to the brain with St. Ides brew
The black market dealt murder when they serve them foo's
Chorus: N-Control (4x)
On the black market, yeeeaah