Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Believe That, artist - Backbone. Date of issue: 31.12.2000
Song language: English
Believe That |
| Never let the money and these broads break us |
| We right here till the Lord take us |
| We act a fool cause the laws make us |
| Baby, you can’t stop the hustle' |
| You walk your ass 'cross my yard, get off my grass |
| You want to get to that money, get off yo' ass |
| You wants to know my name, you wants to ask |
| If you want to see me for something, it’s going cost ya cash |
| I see ya poking outcha jeans girl you acting bad |
| Oh, do that again with you nasty ass |
| I caught her coming out the mall, with 2 or 3 bags |
| Now shorty got her at the wood shack, throwing her back |
| Champagne, chicken wings, and bubble bath |
| Catch me somewhere outta town signing autographs |
| Still working street corners, straight serving them blacks |
| Them thirty-two fifth it for four and a half |
| I prefer a Chevrolet, when it’s time to mash |
| And I smoke the 'dro weed, a hundred dollars a sack |
| I put up the big numbers nigga, check the stats |
| And I’m on the microphone with Gipp, Slimm, and Cass |
| Since the trashman only run once a week |
| If I miss it, I’m wait 'til night and dump it up the street, |
| behind the Winn-Dixie |
| Quiver, never step or kept up his penny drawers |
| To get an applause, appeared to have no flaws |
| In the situation, no dentition, smelling good |
| But I ain’t gonna feel her, touching up would be too easy |
| Sleazy, measly, looking ugly like a person trying to sell me a dub |
| Fool A, see, D, and me |
| Trees ain’t my reason for sending your ass to grave and |
| Watch you say the grade is, |
| Burn like acid reflux, somebone’ll order up the Pheffer chickens |
| While I order up a smoked duck (Thank You) |
| Get the gas to go, at the corner sto' |
| Keep my hand on the nine piece |
| In case somebody want to disturb the peace (Always keeping my eyes open) |
| Cause you, can’t, stop the hustle |
| Well I’m known for my shine, Southside |
| Eyes on the prize, it’s Mr. Fly Guy |
| Mobbing, '68 Chevy, door vault ties |
| Jumped out mugging like I’m holding twenty pies |
| Rocked up, work on the block, |
| We keep it, chopped up in the spot, in the pot |
| Where we keep it, stocked up from the Frosty Flakes |
| To the chickens in the cake |
| If I drop it on the tool, it must be weight |
| Went with two and a quarter, came back with eight |
| Let Juke lick the plate, I re-rock the shape |
| Like it hot in the kitchen nigga, oven on bake |
| Got gorillas with banana clips, who love to go apes |
| Southpaw, side-strapped, known to leave yellow tape |
| Try and stop the hustle and crushed like grapes |
| Just for the taste, just for the taste |
| Uh-uh (Uh-huh) |
| Baby, you can’t stop the hustle' |