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Artist: 1.4.0. Productions f/ Othorized F.A.M.
Album:  Staten Island Stand Up
Song:   Shot Me Down
Typed by: Cno Evil

[Intro: Lounge Lo]
That's right.. I see you
Aiyo, Wigs, you see him? Let's go him

[Lounge Lo]
Aiyo, loose goose, run with a deuce and set a truce
With a .38, damn Billy, why you had to crack the milli and skate
Damn, pardon a nigga, cuz I had to put the 15, AR on the nigga
My gun is a talker, and me? A Shaolin New Yorker
Fuck that, you can bring your balls and meet on the court
My girl taller, and all about the streets and the fork
And she know about the heat when it scorch, she got my back
And she always losed out, when peepin' the horse
And the guns are going off on the Staten, of course
Ask the police, how we get clapped on the cross
Of course, Park Hill hillbillies, Wild West
Jungle Nilz, Now Born, and them Stapletown dust phillies
We load the guns and plus we ready
And for a out of town nigga, that's a plus for heavy

Yo, starving like Marvin Hagler, marvelous
Fabulous, five mic poetist, golden grips
Holding hits, writing what a wish, like a birthday gift
Blowing out candles, gamble, the rap Mickey Mantle
Money taker scrambler, smoking weed by the handful
Twelve bar vandals, open mics is what I ran through
Crack sneakers, wife beaters, benz white juice
See the leaning lay back, twisting reefer
Puzzle missing pieces, hustle like Jesus
Rap bible books, and preachers gotta bust they guns up in the breachers

[Shawn Wigs]
Yo, this is Staten Island, you can get crashed like stocks
Smack with a green machine, or some classic Reeboks
Rock a fox coat, keep a big heater in the lining
We in a big lead, O, we slid right past the minors
We major, rainbow Skittles, pack flavor
We spit and spaz the fuck out, what up neighbor?
It's the kings of cliche, muscled your DJ
Slid through the blocks, slapped the ones all on your PJ's
Bite your mic, tore the sole off your sneakers
Staten Island Stand Up, bust guns in the bleachers

[Crunch Lo]
So Park Hill, West Brighton, New Brighton, the Harbor
Stapleton, Port Town, forty cals and pounds
We on the mound like a pitcher, dreams of getting richer
Reach for the stars and found the big dipper
My niggas stand up, front and get blammed up
Ran a hundred deep in the club, we man up
The gemstar spitter, I've never been a quitter
I run real close and throw the toast to your liver
A heatwave, or I give you a close shave
At close range, muthafucka, playing no games
We keep the metal spraying, more than Olympics
Our thoroughness is vengeance, we going hard
From four quarters, relentless
We been this live, nigga, no monkey jive
We fuck queen bees and conquer the bee hive
The modern day Hannibals, thugged out animals
Straight from the zoo, clear the whole block with the tech 22