Lyrics:
wit the thugs
Cause I don't like the phoneys
But I'm louder just like tony
And I do dirt by my loney
I'm iced out, thuged out aw man, stop
My 95 on your
1, 2, 3 4!
I'm calculating all my losses
Tryna gain some Ws
I've been out here flying family colours
Never thought you'd paint me as a prodigal
that you wanna be
Go live for yourself or you die on your knees
Burn the streets down nigga this is anarchy
It’s a good night nigga no black eye peas
Why
like Willie
Nelson, so what the hell son, no bore ya
Anoy ya when I spill the beans like lawyer
I saw ya, tried to pick my style, hit the balls
I guess
Let me tell you somethin' about an a-b-c style
The a the be, the c the d the e the f the g the h the I the j the k
The l the m the n the o the p
Junior High, we was just gettin by
And drivebys robbed my homies of their young lives
I never did cry, and even though I had
pain in my heart, I was
Junior High, we was just gettin by
And drivebys robbed my homies of their young lives
I never did cry, and even though I had
pain in my heart, I was
Black Dog
Black dog don't like me to smile
Happiness is not his style
When you see my teeth and hear me growl
You know black dog is on the prowl
I tried
not a battle
If a snake doesn't rattle
'Cause my style's as old as a reptile
As slick as the Nu Nile, as new as a new child
So come follow me
stay kicking so Iâ??m calling it Kung-Fu
Master my own style, punk show â??em what gun do
Iâ??m lethal like a heroin bundle, yea
The beat rock from
and all kind of vowels
When you makin' all kinda of thous
I just want the Presidential Rollie black face, Obama style
Then count the check up, E. Honda
of neck bones, we'll tend to fire up
Because a young brother like the Quik is gettin' wired up
You know my offbeat style is flowin' all the while
I'm
of neck bones, we'll tend to fire up
Because a young brother like the Quik is gettin' wired up
You know my offbeat style is flowin' all the while
I'm
Nowhere to go from here, but the top of this sphere
Nothin' stoppin' us here, we lockin' this here
With the black toaster by my hip bone, fuck a holster
Hull Peas Till Our Fingers Turned Black
Taking Turns Cranking Up That Ice Cream Maker
Gettin' Brain Freeze Because We Ate It Too Fast
My Grandpa Was
Owww!
Get on down [x3]
[Erick Sermon]
Well, it's the E wit the juice, I'm down to get loose
Strapped in black wit the nine by the boots
backstrokin, you don't know me or my style
We hold court and blow trial
You catch 'cal when you browse through my X-Files, who be next now
Man's down, hands down
the one in black leather
Name tag sayin "Caution when wet by the track wetter"
The hash spreader, I love the grimy shit
Even my girl did grimy shit to me
first SMACK event
You ain't run into me by
Accident before my crash pussy
Swear To God you ain't see me at a concert
Backstage and ask can you have my
me ten points on style
And the paint ain't trippin', drippin'
Look at this dippin', never caught slippin' or missin'
And in case you was doubtin' my
through the layers of smog
Feeling down by law like I was Jim Jarmusch
Pictures in my brain just like Diane Arbus
Too much combustion gets my brain
man summit y'all never saw 'em
The cops caught 'em, real leaders
Real street preachers
Black Panthers style Poor Righteous Teachers
This before the cell
I cut another tree down to pass the time
While I watch a lifetime pass me by
Looking back on old days, glassy-eyed
Watching years go, like my
love and scraps
Thank God for my country folk and family
Instead of a metaphor I’d rather
Take it by James Anderson
Damaging how they televised
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