Time For Change

Pauly Yamz ft. Black Thought and Malik B - “Time For Change”
[Emcee(s): Pauly Yamz, Black Thought, and Malik B]
[Producer(s): DJ Jazz]
[Scratches: DJ Jazz]

[Verse 1: Pauly Yamz]
For killers cats who
Claim they’re getting cheddar, never seen no coke
Perpetrators of Nino Brown, Nino Broke
See no hope [?] your hustle is strange
You ain’t never really had shit—it’s time for change
Driving a Range, niggas ain’t got the bucks
Get your mom out the projects, then cop the trucks
Dwell on that. My life getting shorter to live
Instead of fronting for these bitches, should have bought her a crib
In order to live where niggas don’t stack their chips
Hoes [?], play the corner on some backwards shit
The backwards flip, fake niggas swear they’re nice
Rocking slum gold Rollies with zirconian ice
Now what you trying to prove with the price? The only ones
Working with cheddar, and your crib is the mice
Seen ‘em stacking, and you still want stuffing
Rhyme for ten years and you still got nothing
Damn, that city living must have got to you
Get a job, brother. Hustling is not for you. I’ll stomp
Your crew with cats that’ll run up in your house really
(What, what?) And me and Tariq both from South Philly

[Verse 2: Black Thought]
Yo, I’ll strike like no one, [?] to slow gun
Rip your collarbone like a Vulcan, swinging like
It’s the US Open. Son, you’re just hoping. I’m Wild
Like I’m out West, yes, locing. My death’ll have
Your chest smoking, bone beneath your flesh poking, legs
Broken [?] backstroking. When y’all
Spit, you’re just choking. Y’all hopeless niggas slapped
Out of focus. Who the culprit? I came like
I’m at the pulpit, the exotic. The planet locked
Down, double-bolted, and clowns is insulted
I’m sub-surface. Smurfette words is worthless
Y’all niggas want to dance around shirtless. What the fuck’s
The purpose? The SP connection at your service
Pauly Yamz regulate ‘em on purpose

[Verse 3: Malik B]
Yo, what you
Forgot: you’re holding a Glock, but still could get shot
Before you hit the bricks, your chick was out here selling her cock
A militant would tell you the truth, show you the proof
You fucking goof, all you’re hearing is the “blook” from The Roots
Never sugarcoat shit because the clip is fully loaded
In ’99, Things Fell Apart and exploded
I’m all-pro—fuck Geraldo—come through like cargo
Light shit up with the flames, remain in front of Marlboro
Rubber bands on your wrist as if y’all niggas saw dope
From [?] to lay toner to Daytona
To Arizona, Brooklyn, New York to Corona
To Puerto Rico, I’ll see you zoning off the lethal
[?] we’ll overthrow your plot of evil
[?] with a chest made of steel, bang you
Up from head to toe, I’ll make you do cartwheels