Artist: Roc Marciano
Album:  Behold a Dark Horse
Song:   Consigliere
Typed by: kirenamloh@msn.com

[Intro]
That's a muh'fuckin fact, boy!
(They can't tell me no, anymo')
Where my fuckin RumHaven, where my shit at?!
(In the-in the-in the city though)
...ahh! (We the, illest, in the, city though)
Uh, uh... what it is yo
What it is, ho? What's it hittin foe?
(What's poppin, bitch!) You niggaz know
Uh... (Waddup) Yo

[Roc Marciano]
(C'mon) The shit ain't rocket science
I rock the Greg Lauren's like a rock climber
The stars lined up, you got lined up
I heard it through the grapevine your barber gettin lined up
Niggaz not even cut, from what I'm from, fuck it
Be upfront, the Mazi white, seats peanut punch (MMM!)
We the clean up bunch, pull your jeans in for once
The game don't come with a gun like it's Duck Hunt
You got fucked in the butt, that's on the low like a buzzcut
Jealous of you for what, why would I give two fucks? (Don't give a fuck, nigga!)
You ain't got shit I want, I'm the one, I'm narcotics
I come bottled up (yup) - I'm a hard act to follow, blood
You can't catch no homo-'s with that hollow gun (uh-uh)
I dare you monkeys to try one more stunt (I dare you niggaz)
Uh, you might need a rain check
The chain's a pain in the neck, the trey eighty's Mr. Potato Head
You bled through different shades of red, that's what the painter said
Read the disclaimer 'fore you skate ahead
Rub your name out with the eraserhead, no trace of the dead
Just a JPEG, that they can place on the web, yeah
(Damn, nigga~!)

Uh, fuck you mean, boy?
It'll be a cold case out here fuckin with me, nigga
(Nigga) We shoulda told yo' ass, boy
Them niggaz know, you them niggaz know

Pack flippers feel us, when they see us, they tip they hats to us (Salute)
I went to get the Pat Ewing's, the new one
Aiyyo Tip, that was back 'fore I had a computer
With mad bitches on the track, I went to get the black Cadillac a tune-up
Your bitch come back smellin like tuna, lit the room up
Stop listening to the rumors, me and that bitch never booed up
To tell the truth, you not cute enough, whore
But you can sure suck a bowling ball through a hoop of straw
Dual exhaust on a two-door raw, son, bring a fork
This shit food for thought,, before you enjoy the meal, first let it cool off
You playin the long game, you knock off of your main ball and chain
That's all I'ma call it a day (I'm out)
You know the forte, Ralph Lauren draws on but fuck the +horse+ play
Got sauce for days, you got poor taste, it's water-based (or light) (Woo!)
Shit, I ain't e'en playin
I sit down and eat at P.F. Chang's then leave without payin