FACE OFF 2000 LYRICS
by SAUCE MONEY
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2000, and it goes like. (Uh Huh, yeah yeah)
This goes out to my Brooklyn crew
Lay my game flat, what you want to do
Talk all night, are we gonna screw?
I'm talking 'bout me and you
I like to push up on chicks like it's the last record
Take 'em to the telly get buck passed naked
Let 'em feel the power, lick 'em if it don't taste sour
Hit 'em in the shower for an hour
Give 'em that feeling, Sauce Money for real and
Let her get on top if there's mirrors on the ceiling
Hit her so right that she want to throw rice
My device makes her say "Damn, that *****'s nice!"
Know I got wifey lay my cards when I pivot
Pass your seven digits if you're with it
Sauce want to give you the option for the boot knockin'
Nine times outta ten it's on and poppin'
Ain't no stopping victory's in the air
Bring a friend next time let's do it again
Bring your whole crew if you see through me
And we can meet on the BQE
And it goes like
Had this ***** bragging,
Sauce had his tongue between my thighs lally-gaggin,
Huh, could you imagine
Shaking your tail just like a dragon here comes my worse flame
In the morning Hot 97 the first thing
(Deny it) Hell yeah why y'all don't buy it
I don't eat no kind of fish if you can't fry it
But who knows maybe one day I'll try it
But for now slow down too much lip is killin' your diet
Can I get it what, get it wet
When he hit it first can I get it next, **** you the best
It ain't wack to be with both of us, mami actually
I'm Eddie Kane Jr., that ***** me!
You want me to feel what he feel when it's tight
And I know, he don't be doing it right
But it gets no liver than this, never lie on our dicks
****, we got *****'s rides on our wrists
Play your cards right you'll be driving the 6
Shopping all day hoppin' out in the Dist.
Popping the Crist, **** hoppin' outta your wrist
Popping your ****, New York's hottest *****
From the ghetto to the Stiletto's
But you gotta do it two times like an echo, why y'all feelin' that
This is how we run it down the line
***** Sauce goes first Jigga next to rhyme
I see you got a lot to get off your chest
Coat, blouse, bra-don't talk me to death
Like murder's on your mind mami, off the dress
Jigga ran game 'til I lost my breath
Last thing I need to know is what it costs for sex
What you need to know is if I lost respect
Don't have to worry if you do Sauce correct
I'ma bless that, bring my whole crew through, don't even sweat that
Uh, dime pieces I'm hittin'
Sauce Money: Four in the morning Frosted Flakes in your kitchen
Jay-Z: Now you want me to start trickin' I suppose
Sauce Money: That's when the first Face Off kicks in
"We don't love these hoes!"