your fingertips Into the world of the just beyond Sitting ever so quietly In your private dining room Guiding the waves of destiny Into the face of
niggas snipe this Push it like tray bags of 72 Kept niggas in suede rags Microphone cycle, who flips the mic so well? Hell without bail, in jams packed
I'm livin good, I'm livin, I'm livin good (Somebody said that you was lookin for me) I'm livin good [Verse 1 - Chamillionaire] 8,000 square footage of bricks on some private
Baxter] Go to hell! [Billy Flynn] What a helling, huh? And social-like too. Her mother owns all the pineapples in Hawaii. [Roxie Hart] What the hell
, you can leave the fucking club If ya be the baller spending money show a lady love See you at the bar looking at another nigga dance (Ooh wee) Hell
the ceiling. What I was feeling was just so dark and twisted I couldn't believe I just did this. Now I'm stuck in my very own private Hell Will I ever
pop their dome like bubbles He'd bring me to his crib to watch my favorite races That's how his daughter Millie become one of my favorite faces She had
'm hurting myself, and I don't even know it. I want to laugh on the third Sunday after the rain has cleared up. The social face, the private face, it
She maybe the face I can't forget A trace of pleasure or regret Maybe my treasure or the price I have to pay She maybe the song that summer sings Maybe
third Now I'm sittin' at the light with ten pounds of herb Uh oh, there they go, the Red Dogs swerve Jumped out, ?Man, damn, they got nerve? Got the hell
a move dawg they not gonna know This door marked private this is not fo' sho' It's Mos Def what you call real fo' sho' Is they what you call gangsta? Hell
son of rage and love The Jesus of suburbia The Bible of none of the above On a steady diet of Soda pop and Ritalin No one ever died for my sins in hell
swallow Bested techno, threats were hollow Bozo waged his mortal combat Edna Grambo raped with wombat The litany of the vanquished The corporal, yes, he lost his tits Private
dead the babbling brook turns to bloody red the demonic faces of the women turn only to reveal that now you'll burn demons of all kind appear their faces
demons? They're awaiting for you Who rules your innerspace? Who commands your soul? Little sins, little wickedness Lead us to our private hell And every day, and every night We face
She may be the face I cant forget a trace of pleasure or regret may be the treasure or the price I have to pay She may be the song that summer sings
the beast He roved up and down through history, spectre with tales to tell In the darkness when the campfire's dead, to each his private hell If you
weed, not quick enough to thief Can't pimp, don't like fur coats or gold teeth But I can rock the hell out of a fat ass beat I might smile up in your face