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rare breed entertainment - mr. mills vs. arp lyrics

[round 1: mr. mills]
i said, when success is what you seek, then you gotta be prepared to fly, n-gga
and when you know you gotta stand in this ring in front of mr. mills, then you gotta be prepared to die, n-gga!
i’mma tell him like i told bonus
i don’t know what hood he grew up in, or what gangstas he grew up around
but they should’ve taught him this, n-gga
the real k!llers are the quiet ones…
the loud boys are usually the b-tch n-ggas!
i remember when i started to view the earth different
it was the day i realized i was living in some of the worst conditions
gas and lights off, rent due, moms letting crackheads spend the night, she woke up, then her purse missin’
it was sadder than a b-tch
later on, i got kicked out the crib ’cause she heard i was in the streets blasting the fifth
i had to sleep in my car
god d-mn it, paul walker wasn’t the only one that crashed in his whip!
y’all tell holmzie when you see him:
all it takes is one split-second, and his head is missin’
50-cal’, bullets look like wrecking b-lls
the impact alone will level holmz’ like demolition
see, can you sense the danger you are in?
well, that might be something you want to put your focus on
i’m getting aggravated ’cause i’m seeing a level of confidence that i don’t condone
i’m a vice lord, but got ills of gangstas and psychos willing to burst the chrome
the irony is that it’s the old folks that got paramedics nursing holmz’
this n-gga thought it was all fun and games when he was disrespectin’ mine
he must’ve found out how i really move in these streets: now this n-gga petrified
don’t bug me, or get sprayed: i put the pest aside
illegal firing pins in both choppers: the poles rigged like election time!
his b-tch can get it, too: i don’t give a f-ck if she innocent, cuz
i was taught to shoot by bill cosby, so it ain’t sh-t for me to put something in a b-tch mug
i tell my shooters, “bang her. wipe down the glocks and load those chromes.”
the clip hold trenta, the part leave a hole the size of a mobile home
i aim at his la cabesa, watch his thoughts drip on his shoulder bones
i’m out here living la vida loca, and all my vatos locos, holmz’!
watch the violence increase, pull up in a stolen chevy caprice, holmz’
better evacuate the city, chief
’cause when i make to where the cans is, he gon’ be running back, looking for a priest, holmz’!
he wanna know how i get away with murder, i tell him it’s all common sense
if i put the silencer on the nina, he won’t know who’s ringing, so there’s no way a nine’ll miss

[round 2: mr. mills + arp]
while you dine out, the men you prep see what’s at stake is costly: no ruth chris
n-ggas prep for mills and still got his onion diced like a sous chef
two arms around the waist flip him: german suplex
knife work, i split holmz’ in half: now he a duplex!
this is what it’s like standing in front of this sh-t!?
i will walk up on dre dennis, bonus, and holmzie da god, tell ’em, “get loud now!”
indiana’s back in the garden: all it take is three to quiet the crowd down
head shot, chest shot, leg shot: he’s dead, he’s limping, and he breathing different
he wants to sue in front of the court
well, i’ll give him 41 right in front of the court like season tickets!
these ratchets always popping off in public: i can’t believe these b-tches!
i left the croissants in the oven for too long: i can’t believe these biscuits!
i’m liable, my brother’s keeper when the time come
catch him with his little man, head shot
soon as homie die, i promise to take care of da god son!
i almost lost my life shooting with a hot one, so i’d like to tell whoever made them b-tches
the cl1ck and jerk make me the tools you making, fool
wait, my n-ggas didn’t catch that
i said the -chk- and jerk make me hate jamaican food!
aye verb the greatest of all time, huh? well, i’ll still let them glocks hit him
think jamaican food, ’cause they gon’ have to care he go to the hospital!
i get this vibe that holmzie da god the type that’ll get the cops
so i’m outside of his workplace at 5 a.m., like, “yo, let me get a drop!”
get hit with the billy at 5 a.m.: that’s kinda hard to change the odds
you didn’t catch that? billy at 5 a.m.: that’s a breakfast club!
i will charlamagne da god!
dollar sign, man

- rare breed entertainment lyrics

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