The Streets

DJ Self ft. J.R., The Last Emperor, and D.O.E. - “The Streets”
[Emcee(s): J.R., The Last Emperor, and D.O.E.]
[Producer(s): [?]]

[Verse 1: J.R.]
Yo, I’m that nigga with a bowl of Cheerios, spit Ebola
Through your stereos. Nigga, fuck what you thought
Fuck who you are. Hit you with a couple of bars
The muffling squad. Ain’t no nigga fucking with the god
And I’m hot when I’m sober. When drunk, I’m the best
And I got enough rims to have a dunk contest
J. How you figure that I’m not the nigga? You got
Stones? I got mountains—my rocks are bigger
J.R., nigga. Don’t get it confused. I’m not
Humble, so don’t make me spit at you dudes, and don’t
Get it twisted ‘cause the kid flashes, still
Spit acid, turn you niggas into ashes
There’s six million ways to die. I got six million
Flows that I switch every day to try. That’s why
Nigga ain’t fucking around, tucking the pound
Niggas jump up and I’m bucking ‘em down
‘Cause I spit like a man possessed. Check this shit
I’ll make heads spin like The Exorcist
Now who want to test the kid? You ain’t heard?
I’m the answer, so fuck what the question is. Son, it’s
J. Rizzle. I’ll spit nothing but straight sizzle
I’ll shoot blocks ‘cause I hate to dribble
Far from a basic mental. Mental chase the pencil
Pencil chase the paper. You know who this is
J.R

[Verse 2: The Last Emperor]
Uh, uh, call me
The G.P., the opening act
Either put your drink down or start throwing it back
And, in fact, it ain’t no makeup on this rap actor
No Maybelline, no MAC, no max factor
The world spins fast and I adapt faster
I’ll speak for the gat-clappers and backpackers
When beef is deep, I’ll sleep with my weapons near
Believe me, chief. Don’t weep when my death is near
Survive an industry full of weed, sex, and beer
And still get the most votes this election year
My second year in the cutting room. With all
Due respect, The Last Emp. Who the fuck is you?

[Verse 3: D.O.E.]
Yo, yo, y’all niggas
Made me spill blood on a new cashmere
Fucked-up bitch, I should have killed you last year
But now I’m richer, hon, a rap Guy Fisher
And when the Feds around, I tell niggas, “Whisper”
And watch out for me. They got it out for me
Shootouts at my house while I was on the balcony
Kingdom come, here I come in a pair of
Air Force Ones, blazing a gun at anyone
And pull hammers on niggas with bandanas on
And when he gone, same nigga you pouring Henny on
Fuck. I don’t even got to pick chrome up
To get you touched. All I do is pick the phone up
They say milk does a body good. The other
Day, dawg, a nigga got bodied in my hood. And to
The Father, the Son, Holy Ghost, amen
I’m writing from my heart, so it’s bleeding through the pen
If you interfering in racketeering, then my
Shots is tearing through that bullshit vest you wearing
For violent wars, I bring nines with the silencers
And leave niggas extinct like dinosaurs
Bring heat like TNT on Tuesdays and Thursdays
Try him on the second, get murdered on the third day
You won’t get to see your anniversary. Slugs hit him
Purposely, gangster in the streets nurture me
You’ll be smart not to start. When I spark, I don’t stop
And I’ll blow your chest out just so I can see your heart
I got a nine and a Glock for you, and the reverend got a
Church and a pine box for you, motherfucker
All y’all niggas got the same flow and get cracked over
The head with a champagne bottle like Lil’ Mo. It’s
D.O.E., and the hood know me
And my dope is intense—y’all niggas O.D. What?