Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song G-Joint , by - Styles P. Release date: 31.12.2005
Song language: English
G-Joint |
| Man I rock the fuck out, though |
| I don’t know about everyone else |
| Whatever we don’t make, we gon' take muh’fucker |
| Get this straight and fix yo' face |
| I ain’t got to sell millions, I’m in the buildings |
| Where papi comin through with them bricks by 8 |
| Listen cocksucker and clown, I’ll be leavin you cut |
| You’re like a dutch, how I’m bustin you down |
| Niggas drivin in a circle wit’cha ho in the back |
| 'll be the only damn way I be fuckin around |
| And I’m aimin for your waist, hopin you duck |
| So I can bust you in the head when I’m buckin the pound |
| And I told you that I’m Holiday Styles, let’s celebrate |
| Heard you gettin money, I’ll rob you right now |
| And you gon' get popped in the head, true story |
| Crips do they thing in blue, Bloods pop off in red |
| Me, I’m on the move only stopping for bread |
| Double R and D-Block nigga, copper and lead, whattup |
| Stay in the zone |
| I don’t know why the fuck you amped yo |
| Got hoodrat bitches, carryin birds on the public transpo' |
| Niggas in the hoods that go out like Rambo |
| They hot since 138th had that cancelled |
| Young buck… dumb fuck |
| I’m two guns up, «Ryde or Die» 'til the sun’s up |
| «Gangsta and a Gentleman» dog, I got class |
| I’mma send a bunch a roses to your men in the morgue |
| I’ll be down South bendin a whore, ten in the morn' |
| Dirty on 85 like Jay, Barnes, Sean Paul |
| Beef with New York rappers, I’m killin 'em all |
| On my Slick Rick shit, y’all could «Lick the Balls» |
| I been cool cause these niggas is ass, but fuck that |
| Might as well call me pool cause I’m gettin splashed |
| And that Lamborghini liftin the stash, even gettin the mass |
| While some haze to mix with the hash, whattup |
| Pass that blunt nigga! |
| I’m in the hood where the eggs get knocked off |
| Gang members find they family members with both of they legs chopped off |
| Niggas ain’t scrappin, they bangin ya |
| The judge don’t need a tree branch when they hangin ya |
| All y’all fags’ll get ate like clams |
| Since this is a «Bloodsport» bitch, you could call me J Van Damme |
| All these so called guerillas be tellin |
| How a rat gon' give you «Thoughts of a Predicate Felon,» muh’fucker |
| Homey what you want, the blade or the slug |
| I’m the one that send the order when they sprayed up the club |
| Bitch nigga, bow your head in the presence of G’s |
| Load the lead up and squeeze; |
| I’m a great dane, niggas is fleas |
| Fuckin rats can’t wait to call cops |
| 'Til I make 'em sick and put pellets in they mouth like cough drops |
| J-Hood bitch, my name ring in the ghetto |
| Cause I’m O.G. |
| and I play the streets like a cello |