[Method Man]nHey yo, shorty, yo that's my wordnOh, y'all smellin' y'all piss now ny'all think y'all goldnYo anybody get caught playin' over here, I'm returnin' em that's my word that they be blastednAnything from two-twenty to one-forty, that's minenY'all need to step the fuck offnY'all niggaz ain't crazy for realnn[GZA/Genius]nThe fiends ain't comin' fast enoughnThere is no cut that pure enoughnI can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reloadnProduct must be sold (to you)nnI'm deep down in the back streets, in the heart of Medina nAbout to set off somethin' more deep than a misdemeanornUnder the subway, waitin' for the train to make noisenSo I could blast a nigga and his boysnFor what? He pushed dope on the block and made the dope sales drop like the crash in the DOW Jones stocknI had to connect to cross seals, to catch more mils than ho bitches got birth control pillsnI'm in the park, settin' up a deal over blunt fire, bum nigga sleeping on the bench they had him wirednPeep my convo, the address of my condo, and how I change a nigga name to John DoenAnd while we set up camp we got vampednWith a stake through his heart, I ripped his fucking fangs apartnSnake got smoked on the set like Brandon LeenBlown out the frame like Pan Am flight 103nHe got swung on, his lungs was tornnThe king pin just castled with his rook and lost a pawnnA regular on the block, and played look out nFor playin' predator with a glock, he shoulda took outnnNo neighborhood is rough enoughnThere is no clip that's full enoughnI can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reloadnProduct must be sold (to you)nnYo, fiends ain't comin' fast enoughnThere is no cut that's pure enoughnI can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reloadnProduct must be sold (to you)nnIt's mandatory that I supply all my troops with mega firearms, big apes, and spread 'em out like crops on a farm to get creamnSometimes 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 sicknHis glock clicks like high heel shoes on parkade floors, mad sick, stand on hills and invade warsnFilthy foul, shovelin' dirt, he's out to hurtnFor instance, chop off hands, attack worthnHis idols locked down airports and exportsnSome import, catchin' ten percent of what the fiends snortnUp in the ski resorts, up in hillsnThey move keys and had skis making drops on snowmobilesnThe plan was to expand, catch seven figures, release triggersnAnd live large and bigger than my nigganWho promised his moms a mansion with mad roomsnShe died, and he still put a hundred grand in her tombnOpen wounds, he hid behind closed doorsnAnd still organized his crime and drug warsnnFiends ain't comin fast enoughnThere is no cut that's full enoughnI can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reloadnProduct must be sold (to you)nnNo neighborhood is rough enoughnThere is no clips that's full enoughnI can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reloadnProduct must be sold (to you)nnThe peers make cuts that's tight enoughnThere is no niggaz that's fucked with usnI can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reloadnProduct must be sold (to you)n