Made You Look (feat. Jadakiss & Ludacris) - Remix a Cappella

I need it from the top
Ah!
This is history, baby
Commissioner Steve Stoute
Lenny, ha!
God's Son, what up?
D-Block, what up?
Bravehearts, what up?
Yeah
Yeah, yo

Yo, ain't nothing but trouble, God, when I kick in the door
With D-Block, Bravehearts and the Double-R
Don't make me let the machine off
This is methadon' music that you can lean off
"Made You Look," the remix, with me up on it
I copped your shit, now, I break weed up on it, and
Everything is real, I see
Like my niggas that been home, but they only got a jail ID
I helped the game, it ain't help me
I'm top five, dead or alive, and that's just off one LP, and

I still buzz, they feel 'cause
'Cause they know the flow's ill just like Will was
I'm just tryna make sure that my son's wealthy
Out of shape, but I make sure that my guns healthy
I'm a ape, you can't stand 'Kiss, coming through the hood
In a Aston Vanquish, the color of dandruff
They said we jumped him, I just let the gun snuff him
Cop P the turbo soon as they uncuff him
This goes out to all of your mans
Why put you in the verse when I can put you in a coroner van?
D-Block!

They shooting! Ah, made you look
You a slave to a page in my rhyme book
Getting big money, playboy, your time's up
Where them gangsters? Where them dimes at?
They shooting! Ah, made you look
You a slave to a page in my rhyme book (yeah, whoo!)
Getting big money, playboy, your time's up (we just getting started! Oh!)
Where them gangsters? Where them dimes at? (Luda! Let's go!)

I'm from the school of hard knocks, sneak peeks and low blows
Where Xs mark spots and kitchens mark Os (whoo)
Where love's gon' get you and hate is gon' snitch ya
And fingers squeeze triggers like boa constrictors
It's the-, Mr. Luda, Jada and Nas
And our bullets give you a deep-tissue massage (ah)
So hear a song and dance while I make these ends
You never stood half a chance like Siamese Twins (ah)

They shooting! Look in the barrel! (Whoo)
Then he made the front page of the Miami Herald
Or Chi. Tribune, nozzles with silent doom
We in that A-Town Journal as violent goons
You should print my information (yeah), quote my rhymes
And keep me in between these New York and L.A. Times
I'm just the victim of society, it's 'Cris the Menace
With more shit out on the streets than evicted tenants, whoa!

They shooting! Ah, made you look
You a slave to a page in my rhyme book
Getting big money, playboy, your time's up
Where them gangsters? Where them dimes at?
They shooting! Ah, made you look
You a slave to a page in my rhyme book (ugh)
Getting big money, playboy, your time's up (ugh)
Where them gangsters? Where them dimes at?

(Braveheart, Braveheart, Braveheart) Jungle! Wiz! Nashawn!
We got 'em scared, look! (Braveheart, Braveheart)
We got 'em scared, they running! (Braveheart)

Yo, I grasp the ratchet, the blicky, the biscuit, the burner
The heat, the toaster, they twist you, you meeting your owner
The banger, the hammer, the flamers, I aim at the cannons
And can you, manhandling you, you'll be famous, I'll cancel you
And cut, that's the end of your movie
Pretending you acting like you and your mens'll come shoot me
My tennis shoes Gucci, old school, pea-soup green
Jean Lee suit on, Veuve Clicquot champagne

Friday the 13th, my CD drop
I rhyme to more Base than EZ Rock, I'm Jason, call up PD
Watch them Bravehearts, Jungle and Wiz and Nashawn
Ill Will, Rasta, Lake, never revealing his face on-
TV or pictures or even them niggas
Sorry that I made you wait long, glad them fakes gone

We shooting! Squeezing them triggers with Luda beside me
Me and 'Kiss get Luniz of weed sent to Styles P
Tell him hold his head, God's Son got him
We made y'all look, from San Quentin to Rikers Island to Green
Sing Sing