"All The Critics In New York" as written by O'shea Jackson, Ryan Garner, Dedrick D'mon Rolison and William L. Calhoun....
Goddamn! new york city!
Skyscrapers and everything!

Back in the day, we used to respect y'all niggas
We used to be down with y'all niggas
All you have for the west coast, is criticism and disrespect
So I say to you and your city
Y'all niggas will never get our respect again
Westside nigga (keeping it real)
Yeah! (keeping it real)

Is brooklyn in the house? (check it out)
What about queens in the house?!? (inglewood!)
Manhattan in the house? (south central)
Long island in the house? (check it out)
Is the bronx in the house? (waddup)
Staten island in the house? (woop woop)
The west coast is in the house sayin
Why you talkin loud?
What you talkin bout?

Fuck all the critics in the n-why-see
Who wants to rock the microphone after me?
Think of who you are and who you be
My energy holds it down like the nfc
I'm going thorough through your borough
Wit my raider jacket and my jheri curl, gangstas rule the world
On the west, nevertheless, w-s
We got the bomb and you niggas got the stress

You couldn't have said it no better homeboy
With my automatic toy, I kill and destroy
These buster ass critics from the n-why-see
Don't they know that I be from the I-n-g
My peeps play for keeps, deep crews pay dues
By murder ones and twos, rip riders and damus
Choose to stay gangsta, you never ever ran us
We bustin clips like bananas, sportin colored bandanas

It's the mister hoodsta, cap peeler
Dusty ass new york critic killer
Dumping and pumping the motherfuckin lead in their chest
Because ain't none of them niggas ever gave it up for the west
So now it's on and, the gauge in my pants got me limpin
Fuck you-n-I-t-why, I'm coast trippin
Saggin as a pelle, smashin tape recorders
This is 187 on a new york reporter

"new york, new york"
"new york, new york"
"new york, new york"
"new york, new york"

Fuck all the critics in the n-why-see
Tryin to get an east hip-hop monopoly
But I've been writing gangsta shit since '83
When y'all was still scared to use profanity
Now everybody want to run and go and get triggers
And blame it on these west coast seven-figure niggas
Just because we made it real niggas got to deal
I hope blood ain't got to spill, I kill

It's like the battle of the sexes
You want to treat us like bitches 'cause we're platinum when we flex this
With mic in hand, fans in the stands
We make a mill-ion from california to japan, bitch
Went overseas, seen d's how we done it
88's to 100's to let me know who really run it
This west coast gangsta shit got it crackin, or we jackin
Packin nina's and sellin out arenas, niggas

You make me want to holler, throw up both my dubs
And roll these niggas up, I got to beat em
When I see me, t-roller cut off his scrotum
Leave em bleedin in particles for them biases articles
I'm mashin and blastin so get the casket
I bet you after this I get a fuckin hip-hop classic
I'm banning you niggas from the scene
Kickin over newstands, pouring gasoline on your magazines

To the west my niggas, to the west
To the west my niggas, to the west
To the west my niggas, to the west
We the best my niggas don't stress

Fuck all the critics in the n-why-see
And your articles tryin to rate my lp
Fuck your backpacks and your wack ass raps
Sayin we ain't real because we make snaps
Sellin 6-fo's to the dab, what you lookin at?
With your brooklyn hat and your pen and pad, nigga
I got a pocket full of green busting at the seams
Fuck your baggy jeans, fuck your magazines

Hey hey hey, what's happenin round tre?
It's still m-why critic k on mines all motherfuckin day
It's a trip the script flipped from when you niggas was bossin
Got to flossin, fell off, and got the nail in the coffin
Who want to regret, fuckin with my set
I be a 24-year street westside connect vet
You niggas better watch how you greet us when you meet us
We packin heaters and the only way you beat us is cheat us

Nigga fuck that shit
I gotta, kill it kill it, fuck a new york critic
He write about how I lived it, did it, plus I'm still with it
Puttin it down on all these djs, hate, fakin and flakin
Never once played my record on their radio station
No love for a new york critic or disc jock
Matter of fact I'm blamin all y'all for fuckin up hip-hop

Is brooklyn in the house? (check it out)
What about queens in the house?
Manhattan in the house? (and it don't stop)
Long island in the house? (yeah! yeah! check it out)
Is the bronx in the house?
Staten island in the house? (say what say what?)
The west coast is in the house sayin (yeah)
Why you talkin loud?
What you talkin bout?

Yeah, take it how you want to take it, punk
We're gonna make it how
We gonna make it, punk
What y'all niggas talkin about?
Y'all ain't acquantin and barkin on hip-hop
This westside connection

Lyrics submitted by remembermyke

"All the Critics in New York" as written by William Calhoun O'shea Jackson

Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.

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