Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song City Of Dank, artist - Baby BeeshDate of issue: 31.05.2000
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
City Of Dank |
| It’s your boy, Baby Beesherelli mane |
| La Velvet clika |
| Representin' that yay area dogg |
| Down South mane, Houston, Texas mane, with my smokin' cousin |
| Mister S-P baby |
| S-P-M baby boy, South Park Mexican |
| With my nephew, young Happy P |
| Man on the track, one love |
| One time for that Ikie |
| Ikeman my boy, representin' that 7−1-3 clique mane |
| Houston, Texas mane |
| We fixin' to show you how we get down mane, check it out |
| Well I come from the city of dank |
| Where niggas shoot, hop, snort and smoke crank |
| Where anything’s possible but nothin’s for sure |
| High off Khadafi mixed with blow |
| Well I come from, the city of drank |
| Where niggas chop tar, ride and drip paint |
| Grip the grain, switch the lane, swangin' on them thangs |
| Got the trunk with the bang 'cause the South on this thang |
| Some of you G’s can’t help it |
| We love our money green like the Boston Celtics |
| They felt it 'cause every saucy Chicano’s down with Latino Velvet |
| Don’t get it twisted, we got some more in case you missed it |
| Straight from the Buh-ay, where them niggas keep it playeristic |
| Now every hour, a coward is devoured |
| Some perkin', off the powder, some slangin' go mental flowers |
| Smokin' cavys in the Navi, or the four door fleetwood caddy |
| Geekin', while we tweekin' or smellin' the puporalli |
| Valley jokers what we ran with |
| And them haters just can’t stand it |
| They frantic cuz us hispanics |
| Gigantic like the Titanic nigga |
| Seven seas, I’m tryin' to cop seven keys |
| All folks with the 2−0-9's got whole ones for eleven G’s |
| So I ain’t passin' Baby Beesh all about that scrilla scratchin' |
| Hooked up with the Ikeman now we robbin' in Guerilla fashion |
| Eighteen with a bullet, we bumpin' totally insane |
| I’d like to praise the Mac God for showin' me the game |
| Well I come from the city of dank |
| Where niggas shoot, hop, snort and smoke crank |
| Where anything’s possible but nothin’s for sure |
| High off Khadafi mixed with blow |
| Well I come from, the city of drank |
| Where niggas chop tar, ride and drip paint |
| Grip the grain, switch the lane, swangin' on them thangs |
| Got the trunk with the bang 'cause the South on this thang |
| Off the top, all us realas double R we goin' hard |
| Down South we hit the bar, smokin' 'dro up in the guards |
| Foreign car we send low, bout my fetty and the dough |
| For those that don’t know it’s three and a quarter for the bow |
| Lime green lil' apartment, kind that make you wanna rhyme |
| But oh, dollar shine, it takes time to make 'em blind |
| I’m on the grind to go and get |
| I got my gangsta ready to spit |
| I-K-E about my digits |
| Feds want me cuz I did it |
| I done flipped it into green, with my cousin' lil' beam |
| We be hoggin' up the scene with our mugs on mean |
| 7−1-3, we coldest, from the jump they can’t hold us |
| Got the bricks, got the boulders, let the World know it’s over |
| I-K-E and S-P-M, and that Mexican Baby Beesh |
| Down to make major cash from the bay to seven one tre |
| That’s how we do it like some G’s |
| Makin' money from these ki’s |
| Every block we touch bleeds |
| About to put this game on freeze |
| Well I come from the city of dank |
| Where niggas shoot, hop, snort and smoke crank |
| Where anything’s possible but nothin’s for sure |
| High off Khadafi mixed with blow |
| Well I come from, the city of drank |
| Where niggas chop tar, ride and drip paint |
| Grip the grain, switch the lane, swangin' on them thangs |
| Got the trunk with the bang 'cause the South on this thang |
| Cognac sipper, born to crack flipper |
| Jugglin' hoes like my boy Jack Tripper |
| Glass slippers, on my smoke ray Lac |
| I was broke way back, walkin' down a train track |
| Mary Jane sacks gave my ass a brain lapse |
| Insane raps ridin' with strange cats |
| Plain gats, nothin' special but do the job |
| Rollin' 'round tryin' to find someone new to rob |
| A lot of what you smoke, a lot of what you snort |
| Playin' crack bars seemed to be my favorite sport |
| My only dance floor was the hot corner store |
| Beat 'em down, hol' 'em up, that boy don’t want 'em no more |
| Chest cracker, neck snapper, don’t make the Mex act a |
| Muthafuckin' fool on the best actor |
| Lead blaster, I hope it hits you where it has to |
| It’s the S-P-M sippin' syrup mixed with Shasta |
| Well I come from the city of dank |
| Where niggas shoot, hop, snort and smoke crank |
| Where anything’s possible but nothin’s for sure |
| High off Khadafi mixed with blow |
| Well I come from, the city of drank |
| Where niggas chop tar, ride and drip paint |
| Grip the grain, switch the lane, swangin' on them thangs |
| Got the trunk with the bang 'cause the South on this thang |