– Heat Songtext
von Rambo

We too hot, baby
Uh-huh
Yo

I hit the block like a beat cop with more leaves than treetops
More weed than Cheech got, believe that I need pot
Like cats need jobs and the state needs cons
I sniff bomb like police dogs, one puff make you breathe wrong
Make a broad take her jeans off

Like, yeah, it′s the weed, ma, the shit's magic
Without the cards and rabbits
I got tricks for kids, but the difference is
That the kids is big and the tricks is nicks and shit
I′m not a crook but Nixon is, and Bush is a dick with lips
Me? I give dick but I don't kiss the bitch

And I get head 'til I split the wig
Like a hair salon, in the crib while her man is gone


At work with a flannel on
While I′m in the bathrobe with some sandals on
Lights off with the candles on, I don′t mean to ramble on
But Rambo songs sort of like Van Gogh's arms
I paint a picture of a land gone wrong
Homewood, the cops long gone
It′s just us, so hold on for dear life
The ground shake when I'm near mics
Yeah, but it sound real nice
It′s Backdraft, fam, real life

We ain't loud in the hood ′cause we burn the street
We ain't loud in the booth 'cause we burn the beat
Drafts too hot, third degree
If your ears don′t hurt, you ain′t heard of heat
We ain't loud in the hood ′cause we burn the street
We ain't loud in the booth ′cause we burn the beat
Drafts too hot, third degree
If your ears don't hurt, you ain′t heard of heat

Ayo, I grip mics and spit nice

And it only takes one shot to put a hole through your fuckin' windpipe
And I ain't playin′ no games, it′s some holy shit for real
When you catch a few slugs to the fuckin' brain
And I′m realer than most
At the breakfast table only time these kids ever handle the toast
'Cause chill, ′cause I ain't tryna boast
But fuck with me and you′ll be hangin' out with Casper
The motherfuckin' Goat
All jokin′ aside, I′m Ill Dude


'Cause won′t nobody laugh when you're slumped to the side
Ha, I spit streets and I′m thuggin' it live
I go mobs down, pussy, for up under your ride

And you niggas is soft
I come through with 2-4s like Champ Bailey, start pickin′ you off
Now listen, so sit down and pause
I spit sick like if an AIDS patient drooled a bit when he coughed

I'm lookin' at my options and how to profit
From other folks′ pockets
It′s a hustle, so don't knock it
Fuck a suit and a office
While I′m gettin' high in the projects

Ever since a young age, I found ways to get paid
Spend days workin′ for chump change, but things changed
From goodwill to brand names
I started off dead broke with more debt and less hope
It took more sweat to get dough
And even then it came slow
Spend days in the same clothes
No chains or Range Roves

Gotta stay by a payphone
Work hard or stay home
Yeah, I need a piece of that pie too

Fuck rap, I write rhymes in haikus
What else can a guy do?
I need cream for street dreams, CDs and weed leaves

Fuck a Humvee with TVs
When all I need is these beats to keep spittin'
Line for line, they each written
Rhyme for rhyme, I keep gettin′
A little more deep, more money bring more beef

Like enemies and the police
So I'm on Hennessey and no sleep
No nappin', this is real life, no rappin′
Day-to-day street action
You fuck up and get blasted
Shit happens like shootouts with guns clappin′
We got the heat like what's happenin′

Come on