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lirik lagu black soap (the beatnikz remix) – c-rayz walz

c-rayz walz ft. m1 – “black soap (the beatnikz remix)”
[emcee(s): c-rayz walz and m1]
[producer(s): the beatnikz (frank blank and lil jay)]

[intro: c-rayz walz]
so i remember this brother used to teach me 52 blocks and steel arms and everything and, one time, i was in his house and i seen these blue bottles… like, this white substance powder and i had to overlay sh-t with my moms. so i told her, like, “yo, moms. sensei had these bottles up.” we suddenly had a conversation. later, she tell me, “hey, that was crack!”

[hook: c-rayz walz and m1] (x2)
oils, incense, black soap, crack, dope
gotta have a hustle to stack that dough. every-
-body can’t rap, yo. that’s a fact, so
some of us still caught up in the h-ssle

[verse 1: c-rayz walz]
yo, we used
to sell mangos, straw hats, and coconuts. now we
in america with no stores to open up. dope
in l-st. you could even see the beast approaching us, set
to eat the heart of the meat like sweet kosher cuts. peep
the autobiographic havoc. flashback
to past. i used to pack bags for cash, kid
used all the change for video games. thinking
“long range” now—my scenario changed. rites
of p-ssage, the civilizing savage. i a-
-dapted to this and embraced balance. fear of
a black planet (word?) and black economy. i tried to
get jobs, but my sideburns were stopping me. am i too
strong-looking? hmm. i used to wonder. or is it
the digits of my social security number? stuck
in the cold, some just lick the blade and en-
-joy the taste of cold blood like kool-aid, and if you
true paid, that’s news to me
it’s bigger than your car and your jewel-e-ry. my life
ain’t a beach with babes like baywatch. i try to
sell socks and dodge stray shots, but g-y
cops want to stick my -ss and blast, sn-tch my
oils and leave my table smashed. we take
crew flicks, move swift. new kicks stay b-tter. dry
skin soul. the cold streets is shea b-tter. slick
kids say, “gutter,” but mean “tribal,” going out
like hunters by all means of survival, and if the
noose around your throat got you moody and broke, then you
know why we all pump “peruvian c-ke,” ‘cause, more or
less, we all get less than more, and, at the
chorus, moral-less to test the poor for

[verse 2: m1]
yo, when they
come with the h-ssle, we come with the hustle and work the
money muscle like marcus garvey building an army. when they
come with the okie doke, i’ll pull out the pokey poke
and let ‘em know they really don’t want me to lokey loc
and if it’s the flim-flam sh-t, man, i been ran
that. old-school like a trickling track, see? ‘cause
either you give or take. get it straight. and i felt the
same d-mn way since ’88. it was high
school, the boys’ locker room. hustling hard, didn’t
know drug-dealing was a government job. and to
top it off, instead of collecting for unemployment
locked in a six-by-nine is where my boys went
after the bose, polos, and fake gold. d-mn
it’s a shame how my money was blown. only
knew a few ballers and hustlers who ever stacked it
wings, you know. money, i’ll show you just what that crack did: it
wasn’t attractive. mom blocked up, aunt
cracked out, hood on self-destruct, ‘cause a
illegal business controls america
they’re hypocrites—just look what they’re selling ya
everywhere you go, got that chronic or dro or the
ecstasy, and i know you heard this before, ‘cause, uh
my favorite rappers be slinging right on the radio
y’all don’t give a f-ck. they’ll do you—that’s what they pay your for

- c rayz walz

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