Gold Lyrics

[Method Man]
Hey yo, shorty, yo that's my word
Oh, y'all smellin' y'all piss now
y'all think y'all gold
Yo anybody get caught playin' over here, I'm returnin' em that's my word that they be blasted
Anything from two-twenty to one-forty, that's mine
Y'all need to step the fuck off
Y'all niggaz ain't crazy for real

[GZA/Genius]
The fiends ain't comin' fast enough
There is no cut that pure enough
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold (to you)

I'm deep down in the back streets, in the heart of Medina
About to set off somethin' more deep than a misdemeanor
Under the subway, waitin' for the train to make noise
So I could blast a nigga and his boys
For what? He pushed dope on the block and made the dope sales drop like the crash in the DOW Jones stock
I had to connect to cross seals, to catch more mils than ho bitches got birth control pills
I'm in the park, settin' up a deal over blunt fire, bum nigga sleeping on the bench they had him wired
Peep my convo, the address of my condo, and how I change a nigga name to John Doe
And while we set up camp we got vamped
With a stake through his heart, I ripped his fucking fangs apart
Snake got smoked on the set like Brandon Lee
Blown out the frame like Pan Am flight 103
He got swung on, his lungs was torn
The king pin just castled with his rook and lost a pawn
A regular on the block, and played look out
For playin' predator with a glock, he shoulda took out

No neighborhood is rough enough
There is no clip that's full enough
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold (to you)

Yo, fiends ain't comin' fast enough
There is no cut that's pure enough
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold (to you)

It's mandatory that I supply all my troops with mega firearms, big apes, and spread 'em out like crops on a farm to get cream
Sometimes they will paint the scene like the last episode on Gates and other niggaz plant bombs until the blast from the smoke becomes thick, then floats threw, all they knew his guns sick
His glock clicks like high heel shoes on parkade floors, mad sick, stand on hills and invade wars
Filthy foul, shovelin' dirt, he's out to hurt
For instance, chop off hands, attack worth
His idols locked down airports and exports
Some import, catchin' ten percent of what the fiends snort
Up in the ski resorts, up in hills
They move keys and had skis making drops on snowmobiles
The plan was to expand, catch seven figures, release triggers
And live large and bigger than my nigga
Who promised his moms a mansion with mad rooms
She died, and he still put a hundred grand in her tomb
Open wounds, he hid behind closed doors
And still organized his crime and drug wars

Fiends ain't comin fast enough
There is no cut that's full enough
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold (to you)

No neighborhood is rough enough
There is no clips that's full enough
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold (to you)

The peers make cuts that's tight enough
There is no niggaz that's fucked with us
I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload
Product must be sold (to you)