The A.V. LP: I'm MAYOR
(Ignore My Music At Your Own Risk)
1. The Dark Ages (2008-2015)
2. Feel Me
3. Came4DaMoney
4. Dope Boy
5. School Daze [Pt. 1] / Disrespectful
6. Pain & Death
7. Seven's Kite / JAIL [Interlude]
8. Live Fast, Die Slow
9. N.S.F.W. / Your Girl [Interlude]
10. Chose Me
11. fukkitdoe (Feat. Self)
12. Bing 2 The Bricks
13. PHARAOH
14. Thirsty [Remix] (Feat. PARTYNEXTDOOR)
15. I'm MAYOR (Real nikka Timeline)
*The interludes are actual songs, all of the 2-part songs, the two meld/blend into eachother, the second one being a short song I didn't think deserved a separate track, but fit in the cohesiveness of the album.
* JAIL = Just Adversity In Life. Everyone can relate.
*Self is my plug.
*"Thirsty" by PARTYNEXTDOOR is my shyt, so I couldn't leave it alone. The way the songs put together, it'll sound like a legit remix, with my verses painting a scene, leading right into his verses as if he's playing off of what I say before he comes in.
DISRESPECTFUL:
(Verse)
I'm from the era of slug-proofs, and 2-for-1s,
Jump you and ya son on ya front stoop, I'd do for fun,
Lose a lung. Getcha bytch NuvaRing, NuvaRUNG.
Front, I'll shoot ya hun out the coupe, run, and roof the gun...
I go, stupid dumb hard. With a crew, or none.
BLUNG! BLUNG! Oops, you're done. Dum-dum loofa sponge.
Wet'cha up...Ooh, ur numb...Paralyzed, shoes to tum-tum,
No music drums, "bands" made him move; the slums,
I be in...Grimey, when? 5AM to 5PM.
Any time or type, he in...Keys, no I.B.M.
Twitter, F.B., I.G. 'em. It ain't hard to find me, slim.
Google search Av. See? Ya bytch already typed me in.
I be in some new shyt. Brung a gun with two clips.
Mohawk, nose ring. Thugger thugger BLUE shyt.
Fu-Schnicken ass nikka, I be high as Snoop get.
But my crew Crip, Piru, Six, and Deuces...
I blew piff, and wrote a verse in a minute.
My shyt is perfect. Yours? Worthless. "Nothing worse," said the critics.
Might as well let me shoot ya whip, with every person that's in it.
It's sad you don't know you already in your hearse, and it's rented.
UGH...I earth him on Linden...Word to the cynics.
Pop up, and surface in Venice. My works independent.
And ya remains only identified by words from a dentist.
Attend ya service high, and flirt wit ya Mrs.
I murder shyt.
CAME4DAMONEY:
(Hook)
bytch, I came for da money...Da money, money...Dat money.
bytch, I came for da money...Da money, money...Dat money.
bytch, I came for da money...Da money, money...Dat money.
A bytch won't take nuttin from me...from me, from me...from me.
bytch, I came from the bottom, straight to the top!
Got a lil' flame, when I aim, I'ma pop!
Y'all through dirt on my name, and forgot...
So I don't give a fukk, if you hate it or not,
I came for da money...Da money, money...Dat money.
bytch, I came for da money...Da money, money...Dat money, money, hoe!
{Bridge}
Stand up...Don't try to cop a plea,
Give them bands up...It's my time to eat...
Will I blam somethin? Uhhh, probably.
Just get'cha hands up...Like it's a robbery,
Now...Drop it...Wait!...Freeze...Resume...
Cock it...Aim...Squeeze...BOOM!
(Verse One)
Been in this shyt, since '04...
Smoke a lotta loud, but I sold more...
I'm back for, everything I'm owed, or,
You'll catch a hole in you, plus one in your door.
When I shoot the biscuit...Two piece YOU, not including chicken.
Ya leg and ya thigh. Either lose, or fix em...
Wit suture kits. See I'm a true sadistic, this is too simplistic.
If you owe me some mula, you better go pay.
I'm Kobe, a shooter, and never OJ.
Homie's medula? The metal gon spray,
And ya dome be a goulash-spaghetti fillet.
Oooh, Terio face. Oooh...Terio face, get carried away?
Get carried AWAY...Then buried today. No burial wake.
Make stereos shake...Cuz that beat heat, and that bass, cookin.
I'll eye ya G (ig), while he ain't lookin,
And BUCK! his face, while he Facebookin'.
A.V....V.A. - Brooklyn. And everywhere in between.
Heavy here, with this cream. Step out a limousine,
SCREAM!
BING 2 THE BRICKS:
(Hook)
From the fiends, to the teams, wit them things, on the hip...
Like the sets on the yard, 15 in the clip.
To the Latin Kings, Bloods, G.D.'s, and the Crips...
From the bricks to the bing, from the bing to the bricks.
From the shanks, or...infared beams, to a snitch.
While the cops watchin us...on the scene, in the mix,
nikka...chips stay green. State greens, to the flicks...
From the bricks to the bing, from the bing to the bricks.
(Verse One)
I'm back, from that long road...Where convicts, on the yard roam...
Coulda Lebronned 4 more, but God knows, I belong home...
I fold arms. <--- That's a triple entend', yo.
No Rondo...9s in all colors, like Gino, at ya aunt dome.
Come watch a bomb blown...
Put soft blow, up ya mom nose...
Then my dikk shine, and buff her, like Youtube, when a song load.
You're all welcome to the .44 Long Show.
I'm God Body. You the God clone.
The chrome leave ya shirt, like you got your arms, through the wrong holes...
A shame, you even put on clothes.
It's convoys in my convos...And Concords, in my condo.
So calm noise, or get John Doe'd.
My con boy, from the Congo.
Color ya eyes "Akon," when his muthafukkin palms close.
No talkin on phones, pose when the Narcs roll,
Upload to my I.G., and speak in all code...
Breaking it Bad. You're like Walt, bro...
In-law, though. Jake-snakes in the grass, get'cha lawn mowed.
Got blonde hoes, on my schlong, yo...
But all a snow bunny get, is ding dong, and a combo...
Not even that. Just some Combos.
You're on coke. I been the shyt, since finger waves, and Mutombo.
(Verse Two)
I stayed clean, in them state greens.
"A" keep a fiend nodding off, like he drank lean...
Circle da block, and let my bae squeeze...
That's only if my trey beam, missed ya tee, like the A-team.
I make cream, like my name got an A-Z...
And "R" in it. Authentic, till my days leave...
Speaking of time? I done straight seen...
Some nikkas shake 3, then get they head cracked, tryna play 'Preme.
No cee-lo...I'm Nino, in the table scene...
Cancel a bytch, and let the haters steam...
I break the seams on a brick, and replace it, wit some bake, see?
nikka I'm bossin'. No baked beans...
It's gonna cost him, if he jake-sing.
His moms coughin', at the wake, scream.
So much fluid lost, she need saline...
UGH...I'm disgusted by ya fake team...
You all birds, what I heard, through the grapevine...
And shyt ain't rosy, as it may seem...
Your memory'll fade away like James Posey in a Game 3.
Or maybe Mobley, off a late screen...
I wrote this shyt in 30 minutes, locked, waitin' on a tray. MEAN.
I can't rap but thanks famo
"I ain't no fukkin rapper, b." 
