| Bitch, I ain’t got nothing but time, so I’ma get out on these cuts
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| and grind, keep my mind on cloud twenty-nine
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| my player ways keep me with plenty dimes,
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| see I’ma shine like all six of my gold teeth,
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| when a nigga get through cooking up, this O-Z,
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| all night on the block til the sun rise,
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| my only friend is a glock with the 4−5
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| Four five in the mornin it don’t stop,
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| day dreamin bout flousin tha drop top, (woop)
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| blue lights snap me back to reality
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| I hit the alley quick and toss what I got on me Tricks ain’t got shit to do but harass,
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| search tha nigga and took about a three in cash,
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| I guess that’s better than gettin locked up,
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| or gettin jammed with that shit I had rocked up, huh!
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| Now I heard that the South is where yo folks from,
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| down in the bottoms where they broke some,
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| whips cross a nigga back, way back,
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| and now they wonder why we act, how we act,
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| gold teeth and heavy chevys, and talking slow,
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| afros &loud ass Italian clothes,
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| People bar-be-quein in the front yard
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| Money from the first of the month card!
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| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up!
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| I got a maid cooking grits, with a, outfit,
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| so tight my niggas wanna stay the whole nite
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| Dice game in the kitchen, nigga, T. Lee
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| Nigga drunk singin sounding like tha Bee Gees
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| Ham sam’ich in the driveway, drop top
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| naked women in tha den playing, hop scotch
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| Thirty bustas in my yard, they be, long gone
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| So hit me and I’ma keep my, phone on I be out turning corners, dranking, one fifth
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| Got some scratches on my rims, cause of one dip
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| Met a broad yesterday, she hit me, ten times,
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| if I diss her it’ll take a nigga ten lines
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| MJG standing tall and I, won’t fold
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| You can have all the bitches, cause I, don’t hold
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| on to any woman like a human hand cuff
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| You got ya hair down baby fuck it, stand up!
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| (Repeat chorus)
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| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up!
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| How many flows can I compose, I drop this slang like lyrical bows,
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| stickin out just like an OUTKAST, over thornt from StimmerGroves,
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| like nachos, the lyrics are crispy, crackin when y’all bite,
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| been had a coke and a smile, now I’m trippin off Yak &Sprite,
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| y’all just might seem to skunk out, with a girl who chunked out,
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| below the Mason-Dixon line, real niggas know what I’m talkin about,
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| from Texas, Atlanta, oh man, Alabama, Savannah,
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| The deeper the darker tha dirty south is what I’m after,
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| no laughter, the content of the rhyme may be contagious
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| The Space Age is pimpin this, players comin major,
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| they shot the psycho that sprayed, cut ya wife and played her
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| The player the B.I.G, B.O.I, dope boy rhyme maker,
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| beats by the layers, of music right here to please you,
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| but if ain’t that dirty then patna see we don’t need you,
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| you know I’m talkin bout
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| OutKast, Eightball, MJG on y’all punk motherfuckers!
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| (Repeat chorus)
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| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
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| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up!
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| You wouldn’t understand, if you stood under it (ooh),
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| it’s like the more that I talk to you tha dumber that I get,
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| the closer that I walk to you, the further that we stand,
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| apart distance, nobody has the upper hand but my bodies resistance,
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| so now, throw your filangies in tha ground,
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| I’m still abound, un-believers stay from hell around
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| I found negatives niggas they only keep ya down,
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| transmitting from Native American burial grounds
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| I carry around, the weight of all worlds on my shoulderpads
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| um post ta blast space invaders up somebodys dad
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| Serious as Aa-Bb-Cc, if knowledge be the key then
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| but it roasted on the porch, and wait for ya momma to get off work
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| So she can roast yo ass, either to finda open window fast
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| Word to the motherfucker, word to the motherfucker
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| Word to the motherfucker!
|
| (Repeat chorus)
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| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
|
| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up,
|
| If anybody out their hear me get ya hands up,
|
| If anybody out their feel me get ya hands up! |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Throw Your Hands Up, artist - 8 Ball. Album song We Are The South (Greatest Hits), in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп