Roc Marciano - Diamond Cutters (feat. Black Thought) Lyrics

[Intro: Roc Marciano]Uh, pimps in the motherfuckin' buildin'Marc, baby, you already know what the fuck it is, niggaWe set the precedent out here, you can'tYou gotta be kiddin' me, niggaKnock it off, niggas followingUh, follow me though[Verse 1: Roc Marciano]Yo, rubber burners in them Germans, we some earnersEarnest, we don't give a fuck, we some virginsVersace shirt, Medusa head with the serpents, disturbingThe folks in the church was nervousSpikes on the Louboutins like a sea urchinYou don't see my me networkin'He's not a people personI was speakin' on me but in third personIf violence hurts how we eatin', it defeats the purposeUh, whole cameras in the thirty clipPray your soul get to enter that pearly fenceDeals with the devil, Snoop with the Shirley TempsMurder was the case they gave a pimp (murder was the case that they gave me)Eventually niggas learned in the long run, your friends turn enemiesLittle things is importantGot popped, went to court onceSince then, been on the runNiggas thought I was finished, I'm just warming it upUhOnce again, it's onPistols get drawn with no pencil pointShot fish, shit talk the oriental jointThought it was civil 'til we kicked you in your groinThis shit is noise, I'm on steroids forever poisedFloyd Mayweather with the cheddar boyThis a different eraAin't no missin' glass slippers given to CinderellasBitches running my errands (Marc)Fuck what you yellin'Niggas jealous and they feel usIf we ain't gelling, accept it and don't be desperateNiggas extra (extra)Fuck, we next upRosebudd did its numbersWe doin' chest bumps[Hook]Condo shoppin' in Cabo, the condom brokeThat don't mean that's my child thoughCondo shoppin' in Cabo, the condom brokeThat don't mean that's my child though[Verse 2: Black Thought]Ay yoEvery sports coat got to be bespokeKeep a non-believer chokin' on cohiba smokeKeep a wide receiver open like convenience storesAm I a Henry Ford or the Lord? I'm either-orThese rappers is more weak, Sweeter than Rita OraY'all whole fuck boy squad this shit ain't even forIts for esteemed honorees, not the nomineesThis shit is for the proper G's, not the minor leaguesSmellin' like a pot of greens is some kind of creedI believe the jacket and slacks is [by Walid]I achieved greatness, switchin' between facesIf ain't a Cartier on your sleeve, it seems nakedDream chasing delirium, the criterion is from SenegalThe homie Nigerian, lookWith the twelve gauge long beneath the black burkaThe track murker give a fuck like a sex workerIt's a sad state of affairs, it's a tear-jerkerThe duffel bag circa '95 GurkhaSlaughter without borders, war in close quartersJoke is on whoever spoke, for 'em it's post mortemThey prayed that the story they told could hold waterBetter make it wait, sure to disobey direct ordersWe faceless and move throughout forgotten spacesThe rooftops, alleys, vacant lots, and basements