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Nachricht	> >Zu Ehren des Archivs. > >[http://rapidshare.de/files/2710142/the-game-300_bars_and_runnin__dirty_version_.mp3.html] 18,2 MB > >Artist: The Game >Song: 300 Bars N Runnin' > >[INTRO] >My mama took me to Sam Goody's >I wanted to buy a 50 Cent CD >I took that shit home >That shit was wack like a muthafucka >Don't fuck with Game > >I like 50 Cent >He reminds me Spongebob >And Tony Yayo is Blues Clues >And Lloyd Banks is Dora the Explorer >They're my friends >Psyche > >I went down one of them Bodaga shits right there in Harlem >Got me a bootleg Lloyd Banks and Young Buck CD >Took that shit home, put it in my boom box >Thought I was bout to be on some radio Raheim shit >Man that shit sound like some Vanessa Williams '88 >I mean Olivia cute but they say that bitch a man >So this Black Wallstreet for life now >GGG-UNOT! > >[GAME] >300 Bars and Runnin >Just loan me your ears for 15 minutes >Walk with me > >Here the breakdown, pass the doja, .45 in the holster >Hollow tips'll fold 'em, them niggas they toy soldiers >Oh, that boy colder than Hova unless he sober >Like I'm the president, but this ain't the takeover >Now, there's the speaker, bring your ears a little closer >Before you call this a diss, and you make Hova pissed >Why would I wanna do that? When I'm just the new cat >That was taught if a nigga take shots to shoot back >Defending his yard, yeah standing his ground >I'm saying if you gonna retire, then hand me the crown >Nah, let Bleek do it, then throw him a concert in Madison square >Watch everybody sleep through it >We can go bar for bar, I'll let the lines speak to 'em >What they say? Bleek is over let Chris and Neef do it >They say the wrong thing, I'ma smack 'em silly >What you thought? Them was the only niggas that rapped in Philly? >See them niggas with the soonies leave you wrapped in Philly >Then dash in groups like Beanie Mac in Philly >??? said Curtis Jack in Philly >Make a U-turn, I gotta go back to Philly >I forgot my cheese stake, that's what I told the cops >So they wouldn't get the dogs start searching for the glock >And I can't forget, B.I.G. got murdered by the cops >Even I was Ready To Die, when I heard that he was shot >What's beef? Beef is when I murk you on the spot >Labels signing many things, still searching for they Pac >I put purple on the block >So I don't feel threatened when Ludacris say he coming for the #1 spot >Ask 50, it get lonely on top >You can hate me or love me, but now the cops the only homies he got >When it's beef we eat, we win, but we ain't lonely we pop >You sell records but a GGG-u not! >Acting big on the radio, to me you not >You can ask Mr. CCC who hot >Tony Yayo I bet 10 G's you flop >Run up on that new 300 C you got >Stop hoping I fall, hope the bleeding stop >And I hope you black out before you see the cops >I ain't hot top for colors, I'm from Cedar Block >So I got my hot tops that make your breathing stop >I'm a gangsta slash rapper, check your CD shop >I'm like Elvis in there, they can't believe you dropped >Now I'm moving on up to George and Weezy's spot >I picked up where my homeboy Eazy stopped >I saw the west coast, put the shit on my back >Sprayed Aftermath on it, then loosened the strap >It get hot in here, let Lucifer rap >Bring hell to niggas when Dre producing a track >Take it to the streets, put the duece duece to your hat >Then call up the pigs, tell them the rooster's back >Call Jadakiss, tell him that duke is back >I'm still by your side, no matter who comes strapped >Fuck Lloyd Banks, it ain't about who can rap >It's about when the ??? clap, is rufus back >I see what you thinkin, you want me to die, is that so? >Now you left leaning back, thanks to Fat Joe >We got reservations in heaven, you ready? Let's go >Drop them off, then the sound like Esko >I'm a say he hit me first if me and Dre talk >All Nas said back was he had a ??? >Now that's the eulogy, beef is kinda foolish see >niggas running their mouth about what the fuck they gon' do to me >But quit the yapping before I proceed to clapping >And you gon' see the captain with plans of getting me captured >Even behind bars, I'm still gon' shine >I'm 10 years younger than Yayo, I get out, I'm fine >Then I go right back, nigga I pop mines >How you gon' drop Olivia, you only drop dimes >I knew you changed, when you started sleeping in that vest dog >I don't need 50 Cent, my niggas make collect calls >1-800-split a faggot nigga wig >He got G-Unit wings, throw them off the Queens Bridge >Now your career is over, career is over >We in QB, banging CNN in the rover >T-O-N-Y, that's the phony NORE >You ain't the talk of New York, your sixteens is boring >Take that shit off ???, go back to PC >And tell 50 Cent you want a copy of Beef 3 >I'm airing their ass out on DVD >You wanna rhyme like Lloyd Banks repeat after me >I'm a G-Unit toy soldier >On Sesame street doing voice overs >Bitch ass nigga need a rhyme dictionary, to rehearse his lines >Sound like Oscar the Grouch, with them nursery rhymes >We was in the studio, when I first got signed >He got stuck, he called 50 tryna borrow some lines >That's the wrong nigga, when you need help with your rhymes >All he gon' tell you is say G-Unit one more time >Got mad cuz I ain't wanna make your beef mine >You got lucky with Ja, why you aint go at Shyne? >He freestyled from the pen, that's just the fact >Said he'd put you with your mom, and you ain't fucked with that >Then you lied about your pops, he ain't never bust no cap >Like Father, Like Son, go ask Busta that >I knew from the beginning I couldn't trust those cats >I'd kill 'em all, if I could bring Justo back > >And I'm far from Houston but you can chop it and screw it >Do whatever to it, but it in the store the shit moving >Gave 'em a hundred bars, they ain't think I could do it >Came with two hundred, nigga this is more than music >Even Dre knew it, that boy hot like summer >Both feet in the dirt, 300 Bars and Runnin >And I beef with any nigga, say my name muthafuck I'm gunnin' >You can put it on skee if you want it >I'll air you out on Drama King, Mike, or Clue >And watch them shits sell out like a Air Jordon shoe >I told Funk Flex when I catch the nigga Whoo Kid >We gon' see if he know how to DJ with bruised ribs >Don't hit me on the sidekick asking what you did >Get a gun or ask 50's police to use his >Cuz Bloods gonna get ya >Bloods, Bloods gonna get ya for that Shadyville chain >That 380 spill brains, when I pop shots >Outside NY, in front of hip-hop cops >Or broad day in L.A., I'ma tell Em and Dre >This nigga bootlegging my music, ain't nothing for him to say >Took me off my own songs, then put it on his tapes >So I'ma take him out his house, put the beam on his face >Drop him off at Terror Squad, let him scream for the jakes >Cuz when you fucking with Jayceon, you can bleed in the lake >For caking off niggas on them CD's and tapes >Ask them to scratch a record, you will see he fake >If 50 was Puffy, you'd run and go get him a cheese cake >Take the DJ off your name, Mr. Instant replay >Not a instant replay >I mean the machine that G-Unit use every time 50 on stage singing like >Bitches only for your shit just a lil bit >niggas only for your shit just a lil bit >On my album 50 helped me just a lil bit >Only on two songs, now back to some killer shit >My clips bananas, I kill a gorilla quick >Beating on your chest, I see to your death, yep >Tell Ecko to make him a suit >Tell Reebock to make him some boots >Get him a head band, to cover the holes in his head >He a dead man for thinking he can walk through muddy waters like Redman >Banks blacked out and let the gun blam without a M-E-T-H-O-D Man >So the lieutenant gotta ask for his strings >Take my advice, never wear air max for the ??? >Unless you one of the Bloods, or a latin king >Cuz if your left with the Aryans your ass will sting >And your cell mate is a 25 to lifer >They will stab you then ??? then fuck you on Rikers >And Life Goes On >Now back to the coward of the hour who lied and said he write my songs >He told Vibe Dre was gonna leave me on the shelf >So he gave me all his hits, you should've kept them for yourself >nigga stop acting tough before I stand over you >Show you how The Documentary live on top of The Massacre >Make a move I'm blasting your ass to the last one >Ten shots from the Mack empty the rest in the passenger >Fase yelling thats enough, let the coroner bag him up >Throw in Makaveli and lift the doors on the Maganum >Gun smoking, Fase think I'm locin' backing up >Reverse the '05 hurse on 41st and traffic, what >Hip-Hop cops on my left, but I pass 'em up >The Dodge got a hemmy in it, Game got a Remy in 'em >In and out of lanes like a New York cab >I'm Mr. Ol' King, that New York cab >Who's this fake nigga, on pictures with the Jake nigga? >Got his crew starving cuz he aint the whole cake, nigga >He ain't Nas, ain't B.I.G., ain't Jigga >If he ain't Cube or Pac then who you got? >We getting tired of you talkin about who you shot >I'll use another six bars to tell you who you not >You ain't 50 Cent, he went out like a gangsta >You went out with Vivica, three months after wanksta >Get Rich or Die Tryin, we thought you was hot >Now the same nigga wanna take us to the Candy Shop >C'mon man, what happened to the thug? >Now you could find in the club, him and Lloyd Banks hugging >nigga got mad when The Game start buzzing >So fuck making friends now I'm into throwing slugs >Olivia talking about we a family, Game had to go >nigga I'll smack that ho like I'm Jackie-O >Cuz I don't wanna be cool, I don't wanna be you >I don't wanna shake hands, or wear your G-Unit shoes >Don't want you on my hooks, don't wanna be in your group >Just wanna sit here and wait >To be gone, so I can head back to the block >Fresh white Nike airs and the matching socks fitted >Pull the brim low, if they don't get it >Bentley Coup on gold daytons, I was the first one with it >Four times platinum, I done been there and did it >Came in the game and shitted, then wiped my ass with it >They say the Lord givth, if Lord take it away >So I build a house on top of Hip-Hop, I'll wait for the day >niggas hating on me, they don't want Jayceon to play >And the DA waiting on Jayceon to make a mistake >So they can put me in the SWAT car and lock me away >Give me a odd job in the pen for minimum pay >Let me out so I can drive down criminal way >Pushing the rock, nah this ain't no subliminal Jay >The summer too hot, and I want the winter to stay >Cuz I'm a cold nigga when I put the pen to the page >Similar to them shells going into my gauge >I hand 'em off to Dre, he turned them into granades >And Just Blaze, cuz the boy got game >Like I close my eyes, and woke up in a Roc chain >Now back to reality, my gun and my vest >And if diamonds are forever, then I'm Kanye West >Take a look at my chest, a hundred thou wet jacob >Whole crew got chains, a hundred thou can't break 'em >And the flow is hot like that wit Satan >And the only thing I got spinning is Daytons >The hotter I get the more willing to snake 'em >So soon as the beat drop, watch where I take 'em >Compton Swap meet, to get me some All-Stars >When Game in the house, they callin all cars >Cuz they heard about what went on in D.C. >Heard about Hot 97, my beef with 50 >Now tell me do he got a conscience? >I think not, cuz if he did I wouldn't be involved in this nonsense >Wouldn't be in Harlem, wouldn't be at this conference >I'd rather be pushing rock, like Samantha ??? >50 whispered in my ear, like we still bonding >We ain't friends, I'm just acting like Charles Bronson >Middle finger in the air, one hand on my Johnson >Hip-Hop police on me like I'm the convict >What happened to the old school? I thought it was rhyming >Doug E. Fresh and Dana Day on the corner like Common >Now that ain't common, it's more like Top Ramen >The flow is news, I throw it up like vomit >And I still shine like diamonds >They kicked me out of G-Unit and I rebounded like Rodman >It's still Aftermath, two feet in the pention >I be mad, I ain't, I'm supposed to stop I can't because >I'm in the hood politican, Impala ??? >And I keep a black .45 on the side of my prada denim >Chip on my shoulder like I'm fresh outta prison >Dollar vision, blow a hundred thou like my wallet missing >Then re-up like kid before the d-cup >Continuously getting money with my feet up >Chasing the throne, here my black Air Force >I said fuck Benzino and got the cover of The Source >Feel me? If not then I guess you gotta kill me >But you ain't gon' do that so muthafucka move back >While I do B.I.G. and 'Pac impersonations on two tracks >When I wake the dead, everybody remove hats >We miss ya'll, can I get a hand clap? >Now back to rap, why I gotta stay strapped? >On that murder T-I-P, kill you ASAP >They won't know which hole to patch up, when the ??? clap >I tried to spare you Young Buck, now it's time for payback >It go, how you from Cashville but you ain't got no cash nigga? >Say my name now that's your fucking ass nigga >Kept your mouth shut and I gave you a pass nigga >Now I gotta lay you down like the last nigga >Buck, buck, buck from my AK-47 >This nigga playing with his life, I might have to put him in heaven >Tryna play the game, talking shit up on the stereo >Prepare for burial, it's when I'm reincarnating Harry-O >And you don't want that David cuz you love your life >Get my Vibe, when it's war he pull out butter knifes >Muthafucka I'ma show you who the gangsta >All you do is Murder Inc., now who the wanksta? >When Suge had you, you were stranded on Tha Row >Juve left you for dead and went back to the N-O >50 heard you on the tour bus and felt your little flow >Then he made you temporary replacement for Yayo >You a bitch, and that's hard to swallow >And you got robbed for your spinning G-Unit chain in Chicago >I call my nigga Jojo to get it back >He had the shit in his hands, and you ain't had the ten stacks >Picture that, I thought we was G-Unit >Then you ran and told 50 that I did that shit >Ask C-Murder, the boy ain't hard to find >I told Monica when I catch him The Boy is Mine >Take one shot of Brandy and pop >Watch his panties drop, when I run inside the Candy Shop >Fuck you, 50, Banks, Yayo, and the cops >And Olivia, I mean for a man she hot >Now I'm running out of breath, like I just beat boxed >Got 20 bars to go, lay it down like sheet rock >Don't worry about the flow, the boy know he hot >Hurricanes in store November, nigga fuck Reeboks >I'm fly like a Hummingbird on a tree top >The new Hov, the new B.I.G., the new 'Pac, I need three spots >280 in, ain't no getting me back >I'm yelling fuck the world, on my victory lap >Remember first it was Buddens, then it was Bleek >Now it's whoever muthafucka, yeah, who want beef? >Now whenever muthafucka, who wanna see me? >In the coffin, body exhausted, resting in peace >You don't want war nigga, you want peace >So give 'em the peace, capiche (sp?) >Let 'em rest in peace >From west to east the flow is outdatable, irreplacable >Lyrical homicide, hell is hot, I'm boxing with Satan >And I slipped 'em the ace, you cannot replace 'em >If Eazy ever decide to return, I remain Jayceon >A king in the making, and the throne is for the taking >So I climb the mountain top and put my stake in >Got the weight of the world on my shoulder >Not a nigga nor a hoodrat bitch can stop me from taking it over >This is crack music, go get the baking soda >300 Bars and Runnin, nigga the wait is over >I'm gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone
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