Detroit’s and Philadelphia’s finest, two cut from the street life cloth, true to the doctrine. Not too shy to wear cameo with the metal in arms reach, but don’t have any chameleon blood type. They cooked up the beef fresh like squeezed Florida oranges. A couple of guys with spotted individual rap sheets respectively, and probably written in blood. Blood runs thicker than water which is the symbolism of life. If water is life then milk have to illustrate muscle. Makes sense why the emcees had a cow!
I don’t sleep on no beef
We ain’t sleeping on these niggas
You know I’m on top of everything, nigga (Lurking)
I come on your street
We’re just creeping on these niggas (Yeah)
Fuck talking, let that metal bang, nigga
I don’t squash no beef
We ain’t throwing no flags
I was taught to handle everything, nigga (Handle that)
I don’t play with no beef
We ain’t play with no pussy
Run in his crib and kill everything living, you hear me? (Brr)
No strangers to beef, street or industry, they know a thing or two about regulating. Especially Meek Mill, arguably one of the last guys with a spatula. Beef has to be on the menu, as well as on the playlist. Descendants of storied rap meccas that are home to gauntlets. No denying that they’re offspring sowed from the G-Unit seeds of yester. Both sticking to the script passed down from two of beef hall of fame enshrinees, Curtis Jackson, and the game. There’s no need to rewrite poetry in motion. Let the shots fly!
Similar to priority, the goods got delivered. That Richard Pryor already on the table. Who knew cocaine cowboys can hunt bounty while riding bareback. This joint is prime steak!