Artist: Ruthless Bastardz
Album:  Too Raw for Radio
Song:   418 Jersey Street
Typed by: Cno Evil

[Chorus: Apocalipps]
When you think of Ruthless? You think
Crime, murder, the guns, the streets, nigga, war of the beef
When I say 418, you think?
Drugs, cash, the thugs, will run, nigga, that's what's up

[Apocalipps]
Aiyo, wait til they get a load of me, with the Getty gas station hat
And a pump to lift up your v
I break in your home, bullets be scraping ya dome
The four four gets hotter than the straight in they comb
Respect my rep, nigga is respecting my left
I let all my desert eagles just peck you to death
I run with convict niggas that'll max on they bid
Since age ain't nothing but a number, I'm clapping at kids
So fuck who you is, nigga, you can burn where ya live
Them bullets feel like a perm when it's burning ya wig
I heard what you did, you was like a worm when you slid
I'm in the closet with the guns, when they come in ya crib
I'm like a ghetto stock's broker, I can double your cheese
Enterprise it on some other shit, and profit with ease
Ya'll niggas never had no locks, but still talk about keys
When I can flip a brick around in 360 degrees
I can make the slowest block just pick up a speed
The master of greed, faster than Maurice Green
Or faster than me, fast like you running from d's
With no stamps on my back, you just cop it and breeze

[Chorus]

[Iron Mic]
Yo, pay attention, I speak for the street
All these rappers talking bout guns, there's only a few gripping the heat
Listen to me and you will see, how real it should be
The block is like the ball court, I ain't missing a beat
And so for that, I react like I'm Pistol Pete
Put the pistol to your knees, grab the money and fleet
And yes, I am a Ruthless Bastard
You probably got a gun but you ain't never shoot up the ratchet
I'm at the funeral to shoot up the casket, you'se a dirtbag muthafucka
Now you lay with the maggots
Go to your tombstone, piss on your grave, I talk what I live
There's a few, not living today
And there's a few things we don't play, so if I give you a bomb
You gon' die, if you don't pray
And don't fuck with my family, retaliation, I break off the branches on your
family tree

[Bless]
Aiyo, hair chop, Czechloslovaki and rap knocks
52 hot, it's locked, got the game in a double knot
Explosion, rock you off a melody
Ring the bell without Atlantic, I'm in there
Got the drop like hammers
Watch 'em scramble like Randle, hand got position handle
The street anthem, shit get framed
Bypass, you blowing dro in the X5, it's Ruthless, kid
Drop the list, see what the fuck I've did
Yo, I can't lose, my verbal skills up in the booth
I crush you dudes, the corner's is locked, chop his wings
Vertical his body, the booth is like the bing
I'm a predicate rapper, my darts ring like sledgehammers
I'm the cause of collision, so let these Bastardz act up
There's room in these mack trucks, yo, throw' em and clap up
I'mma squeeze til the trip on the desert, pop my backwards
Now flip 'em over, see I hit 'em in his back
We more like a wide receiver, see how he caught that?

[Chorus]

[Truck]
That's word to mother, somebody get killed this summer
Fuck it, the bigger the gun, the louder the thunder
Dig 'em a ditch, while six feet under
I thought I told you pa, ain't nothing sweet out here
Nigga's starving on these streets, we gotta eat out here
This is for 418, bitch, we doing our thing
And we known around the way as the Bodega kinds
Chase the sound down, like Puffy running the marathon
In front of the store, with weed, crack and heroin
You move some, you lose some, I was told niggas
Respect violence, so I walk with the tool out
Truck flipping again, he's about to dome out
And your war story bore me, you wouldn't die for your team
Like Morgan Freeman did up in Glory
So stop acting, there's no room for roleplay
Real life shit, man, far from a movie