Sangtekst: Khm. Game. New York.

[Intro: Kool Keith]
Yo, you know what?
You could go to all the states in the world
See girls with long hair, flat stomachs
Goin' back and forth to the gym, workin' out
And they be talkin' to you
You get in New York... girls be frontin'
They have a little bit of tiny hair on they head
Or some just walk around with braids
You can't tell 'em nuttin'
Yo... they be killin' me

[H-Bomb]
Easy mon, blood clot, blood cleat with gold teeth
He peekin' at Kool Keith, Marc Live, and me
We - fly LAX to JFK, take it one way
You twisted, Jacky J ain't plan to stay
I'm on a one way, beamin' a poor chick in L.A.
Play - these chickens, break rules
I pack steels, do big drug deals
You in tennis shoes, where's your heels?
And you expect me to pay for these meals
Where's your spouse?
You live with your moms, is that a mouse
I'm breakin' out bounce, my man Ice-T got a penthouse
Four deep hits, scores, V.I.P.
We fingerbang chickens in lace, no space - fast race
Big Lonnie on Webster Ave with a screw face, briefcase
Three ki's taste with a rusty screw driver and waste
Your right hand man got replaced
You chase - baby makers, parts, heart breakers
Want papers - yes, them Murray gators huh?
You're man work in Manhattan up in Houlihan's as a waiters, laters
You worship them slave owners on green papers, haters
I'm back in L.A. with three hoes in a Wilshire skyscrapers

[Chorus x2]
New York belongs to me!
(Not him, or yooouuuu)
New York belongs to me!
(Not him, or yooouuuu)

[Marc Live]
I walk through your city like a juggernaut
You kids is astronauts, all in space
Right to your face, no welcome mats just welcome caps
A community of big city kids in black hats
Catch me in a New York strip club slappin' a phat ass
You don't get no pass, it's the big three - H, Marc, and Keith
Top general chiefs, no games, forget the friends baby
Let's go straight to the brains, an even exchange
No heated exchange, we show the hotel the after party
Lot of Bacardi and Limon, heavy smoke and plenty of grindin'
I left L.A. real quick to see who's rhymin' -
Who's talkin' mess and who's lyin'
Who shippin' weight express mail, no Greyhound - we flyin'
Forty-two street triple X, we buyin'
Hot 97 nigga gon' play us some new shit, or we gon' start ridin'
Me and Blaze up that spot, you know who we are
High profile, we not buyin' the bar, real grimey
One E & J, one Philly, and jake behind me... BX

[Chorus x1.5]
New York belongs to me!
(Not him, or yooouuuu)
New York belongs to me!
(Not him, or yooouuuu)

[Kool Keith]
I'ma tell you New Yorkers on lock down, the city is my boo
You shoulda called up Clue and made appointments
I'm qualified in the Metropolitan area
I shoulda been on the professional too
None of y'all rappers don't have a rule
Marketing plan out there, y'all know what to do
What up nizza?, with tight beats on destinctive tracks like the RZA
On four DAT's, computer sequence my formats
I step on MC's like subways, rest my feet on rats
8,000 rappers comin' out this summer posin' hard, rhymin' like pussycats
Y'all don't shoot nobody, half of y'all like to scratch -
Like kittens in a batch, most of y'all scared to light a match
Blow birthday candles, y'all dealin' with girls with love handles
Better yet, guys still standin' in front of Fat Beats lookin' for samples
I laught at you holdin' champagne tryin' to walk in the club like Rambo

[Chorus x2]
New York belongs to me!
(Not him, or yooouuuu)
New York belongs to me!
(Not him, or yooouuuu)