Gold Lyrics - Method Man

[Intro: Method Man] 

Aiyyo 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-fourty, that's mine 

Y'all niggaz step the fuck off 

Y'all niggaz ain't crazy for real 

[Chorus: Genius] 

Yo, the fiends ain't coming 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 

[Verse One: Genius] 

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I'm deep down in the back streets - in the heart of Medina 

About to set off something more deep than a misdemeanor 

Under the subway, waiting for the train to make noise 

So I can blast a nigga and his boys - for what? 

He pushed up on the block and made the dope sales drop 

Like the crashin of Dow Jones stock 

I had to connect to cross seals, to catch more mil's 

Than ho-bitches got birth control pills 

I'm in the park, settin up a deal over blunt fire 

Bum niggaz sleepin on the bench, they had em wired 

Peeped my convo, the address of my condo 

And how I changed a nigga name to John Doe 

And while we set up camp, we got Vamp 

Put the 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 

kingpin just castled with his rook and lost a pawn 

A regular on the block, and played look-out 

For playing predator with a glock, he should have took out 

Photos 

[Chorus:] 

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 

The fiends ain't coming 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 

[Verse Two: Genius] 

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 repaint the scene 

Like the last episode on gates and other niggaz 

plant bombs til the smoke from the blast becomes thick 

and flows through all they knew, he's gun sick 

His glock clicks, like high-heeled shoes on parquay floors 

Mad sick, stand on hills and invade wars 

Filthy foul, shoveling dirt, he's out to hurt 

For instance, chop off hands, attack worth 

His idols would lock down airports and next extort 

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 crime and drug wars 

[Chorus:] 

The fiends ain't coming 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 that come is tight enough 

There is no niggaz that's fucking up 

I can't fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload 

Product must be sold... to YOU