Saturday

Saturday night, Uptown,
Ridin' past Kansas Fried Chicken,
What's poppin', kid? We in the mix.
It's chilly, 40 below,
Gate's closed, gotta catch Dr. Jay's,
Blowin' my hand, rub on my nose.
Tap the glass, stop frontin', duke, fresh pair of jeans,
Look, I got loot, eleven in the beige boots.
Heard a screech pull up, these Jakes flashed me five pictures,
One had my man's mug, semi-stepped brother hugs.
You asked the wrong guy, son,
I'm from Atlanta! “Yeah, we know, Mr. Coles.
Flew in two days ago to see his fam,
But we been watching you crazily,
The whole Staten Island shitting on you,
Wisdom bird's pregnant out in Baisley.
Holding snow in your ear, fresh baldie tried to change up.
Not truck today, still looking fly, still slammed up, huh?
You mind popping your trunk, slow your pace?
Starks, fix your face, copped out the six, five years probation.
You dealing with a lot of science, motherfucker, we're watching you!”
Make me wanna lick shots at you,
You disgust me, screwin' me down, grab my gun,
Go ‘head, bust me!
“Heard you hate Jake, that's what it must be.
Hands behind your back, spread your legs!
Just found a roach in your tray.”
It's not mine, fucker, what I said!
“You met the 13th, nigga.”
A multimillion dollar operation is based upon it, yo!
Where the hell's the RZA?
He's sellin' mics, wildest joints,
Special made to go up in your hand and which went out on point.
Switched to the next scene, I'm at the crib buggin' out
On how poor live, hatin', plus harassing the kid.
Park the truck in the double face garage
Dial 1-900-Raekwon, tell the God shit's mega real,
Flashin' me on BET, Planet Groove, Rap City News,
NAACP committees...

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