Hitman For Hire

[Red Cafe]

Want a hit?

Gimme an hour plus a pen and a pad

Now when go down.. y'allll

Who won't stop it?

When them things get cocked who won't pop it?

Who's trying to slow down the quick come up?

Of a hitman, what wha what what

[Verse: Malice]

You can tell by the walk and by how the chain swing

Got the kinda money most niggaz ain't seen

Most niggaz never pushed that machine

With 350 plus of pure horse power

And the fact that I push pure powder

To the point of no return is something I ain't proud of

Let the plush jewels symbolize the love

For the karats on the wrist I tend to spend just because

My life no less a dream at best

Lured her loving from London from where the Queen rests

Pimpish me took her straight to Mickey D's

When she ordered her Royal wit cheese

Shit, my whole clique pop Cristal wit ease

And pop pistols wit even more ease

Shit, we do the shit that you can't conceive

And I would hate having your mother grieve, motherfucker!

[Chorus]

[Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire

[R Cafe:] You want work put in I'll have that work put in

[Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire

[R Cafe:] You lookin for a gangsta, I'm a gangsta

[Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire

[R Cafe:] I handle my business, you don't like me handle your business

[Clipse:] I'm a hitman for hire

[R Cafe:] You lookin for a gangsta, I'm a gangsta

[Verse: Red Cafe]

Uh, the boss of my days is back playa

Talk greazy, we don't call it rap playa

Easy, Izzah they say I'm special

They like the seven but, love me in that S Coupe

My boxes used to have horses, aight

Now I'm soaking the Boxster Porsches, aight

Got princess cut in my crosses, aight

Enough to make them coppers nauseous aight

Now I been shot in the neck, that was almost fatal

Now I'm the Shoot-a-Homie never under the navel

I'm in they hood like illegal cable

Shakedown, 911's a joke in my town

I'm bitch-nigga proof, 180 proof, liquor proof

I got to make a nigga disappear, trigger poof!

Coach said I wasn't good wit my jumpshot

So I get upclose when I'm bucking my toast, Izzah!

[Chorus]

[Verse: Pusha T]

Big city rolla, pind diamond rose gold

Like strawberry Quik was spilled on his shoulder

EGHCK! all soldier, top shots out chrome glocks

Keep gun coupled, ghetto version of Noah

He will make your soul float, fuck wit the next man

In this hand I got the tool for making ghosts

Beats to the corner, Ben Wallace in the post

I send ya to the place where the coroners ya host EGHCK!

Not living, I'd rather be choking off fumes in someones kitchen

Counting money, but these niggaz won't keep their distance

So I let these nines assist them

See my - presence covers the block like a duvet

Haters trying to guess what you weigh

Pusha gives a fuck what you say

I make corners tumble like Cirque du Soleil

[Chorus]

[Outro: Pusha T]

Uh yeah, Track Masters

Shakedown, Red Cafe wit the Clipse

Uh uh, yeah, we them hitmen for hire