Da Real Choppa Follow

(Brown Hornet, Pop)
Blastin' muthafuckas out the muthafucki' box
(Out the box)

Shake rattle and roll, ratters than ya peasants ya peasants
Form a line, while I'm handin' out presents
Stiff jabs or stiff kicks for a nigga
Big back with stiff dick for my bitches

Burn like a cancer stick, free loaded spit
Them cops that killed Diallo, they can suck my dick
Forty one shots, enough lead to take a city exam
Or ain't that one man with the NYPD

Who need the Ku Klux Klan
I ain't runnin' or hiddin', like 2Pac I'm riddin' and dyin'
New York, New York, It's where brothers are sport
Make it to the playoffs, don't get happy get ya head blown off

We got dick for nuts, puttin' fingers on red buttons
Ready to launch, tellin' us, turnin' ya arms
Hell no baby, ya devils must be crazy
Out of ya mind, I'm holdin' on to my nine

No more Mr. Nice Guy
(No more Mr. Nice Guy)
No more Mr. Nice Guy
(No more Mr. Nice Guy)
No more Mr. Nice Guy
(No more Mr. Nice Guy)
No more Mr., Mr., Mr., Mr., Mr., Mr.

You hold every sentimental
As for me, I lost my feelings somewhere inside the temple
Where they got throat cutters and back stabbers
A life is lost right in front of your eyes, nothing really matters

You just go on living, Projects is like prison
We got fags and dikes, razor blades and knifes
Homo thugs, and all type of drugs
Addicts, snitches, bitches, holdin' ya pictures

With nothin' on but a thong
Fuck me, leave at night, for a trailer visit, fuck you in the morn
Bad boys, we killin' toys, they muffle and noise
Never lose they boys, they just keep on squeezin'

Bodies drop for no reason, kill you for breathin'
Rumble till we even, or till one of us die
Eye for an eye, yo it's no more Mr. Nice Guy
Heads gotta fly, we 'em up, let 'em hang dry

Choke 'em till they pass out, wake up in ya briefs
Playin' for keeps, yo fuck you and your peeps
Never had it good, my last album went wood
Bought my words when you hear this, I'm movin' out the hood

Takin' no prisoners, no eye witnesses, if ya sensitive
Back up, you want no part of this
Ghetto bastard, who never got his ass kicked
I just stay kickin' ass, got the mic and the smash

Step up, feel the blast from the Brown Bomber
You don't really want drama, quick to start shit
But then go runnin' to ya mama "Dial 911
Brown Hornet on the new cent, he fuckin' with my son"

Bitch tell that piece of shit to finish what he started
With this cold hearted, half retarded, hip hop artist
Weak rapper, told ya lame ass not to cry
But you gotta fry fuckin' wit no more Mr. Nice Guy

No more Mr. Nice Guy
(No more Mr. Nice Guy)
No more Mr. Nice Guy
(No more Mr. Nice Guy)
No more Mr. Nice Guy
(No more Mr. Nice Guy)
No more Mr., Mr., Mr., Mr., Mr., Mr.

Aiyo, aiyo, aiyo, this Smoke right here
The new millennium, ain't no more Mr. Nice Guy
That's right, that's right
When you see us in the club, there's no more Mr. Nice Guy

When you see us in the streets, no more Mr. Nice Guy
That's right, Baby Pop, Brown Hornet baby
Smoke Records, RNS Productions, ain't no more Mr. Nice Guy
We're not playin', it's not a game

(Brown Hornet, Pop)
Blastin' muthafuckas out the muthafucki' box