Lyrics Yeah - Andre Nickatina, Messy Marv

Yeah

Man, I’mma run my mouth and get your corporate account
Bring my benz out in the middle of a drought
I blow lah like it’s «God Bless Buddha»
It’s sort of like the feelin' runnin' with a known shooter
Baby I’mma spit it to the limit, run into the abyss
You know it’s God, number 7 on your top ten list
It’s kamikaze, look into the eyes of a pisces
And Las Vegas talkin' shit is where you might find me
Fillmo' down from the nose to the toes
Get your cell phone you can picture every pose
Picture all the clothes, picture all the hoes
Picture the perfection when your money pile grows
You gotta crocodile style, I sport gators
They still might bite, so fresh with the flavor
Got Khan?
Fillmore’s number one sign
Steak, potatoes, garlic bread and some prawns!
(YEEEAAH) San Francisco baby
Fillmo' niggas try’na bring back the 80's, YEEEAAH
(Yeah money is the motto
And run around town like its Grand Theft Auto, Chicka-kahnn)
Wally on my hip, good weed in my mouth
Gangsta niggas in the whip, YEEEAAH
(Your not dealin with clowns
When you try to kick hop, watch your body shut down)
Yeah, nigga I’mma mothafuckin' fool
Trees for breakfast, eat brunch by noon
24 Davins, only showin the lip
The rest of the women, same color as the whip
Jump out and crack a nigga shit wide open
Jump back in the nickle with the barrel still smokin
Fillmore nigga, yeah bitch break bread
I don’t want no pussy, I don’t want no head
But you can get a sack of that purple stuff
Some gin and a bag of that Hillary Duff
I’mma pimp, trapped in a gangsta’s body
I’m on dope and gonna fuck around and hurt somebody
On tuesday and thursday the ghost pull up
Then everybody runs, they’ll fuck you up
I’mma shady ass nigga, man I ain’t gon' lie
I just wanna sell dope, smoke weed and get high, you BITCH
(YEEEAAH) San Francisco baby
Fillmo' niggas try’na bring back the 80's, YEEEAAH
(Yeah money is the motto
And run around town like its Grand Theft Auto, Chicka-kahnn)
Wally on my hip, good weed in my mouth
Gangsta niggas in the whip, YEEEAAH
(Your not dealin with clowns
When you try to kick hop, watch your body shut down)
You might mistake me for Doug E. Fresh, the way I sport ballies
With my Slick Rick talk and my Slick Rick walk
I wear rings like the planet called Saturn
The money’s movin' baby then your body is the pattern
You know I hide out like it’s witness protection
Some people start to stare like a model car collection
You know it’s like: twenty G’s in a Jordan briefcase
My hood came up off the word «freebase»
Man the soul of a grammy runs through my body structure
My bottom ho cries, cause I never say I love her
It’s a cold word, thats why I p-p-p-party
My lawyer is a sneaky motherfucker, very naughty
With hot lies, I hit Popeye’s for hot fries
A real rap cat, talkin' 'til the sun rise
What’s your astrology, and your biography
I talk a little bit to get you to follow me
I’m like the quality, you like the quanity
Fillmore born and ain’t no apology
San Francisco baby
Fillmo' niggas try’na bring back the 80's, YEEEAAH
Wally on my hip, good weed in my mouth
Gangsta niggas in the whip, YEEEAAH