| Oh, this what we doin'?
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| Mmh
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| Plugs I Met, BSF gang, nigga
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| GxFR, oh, we cookin'
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| Uh, watch me work
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| Check
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| My pen movin' like I’m improvin'
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| I deliver Def Jams, call me Rick Rubin
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| Big nine millimeter or the SIG shootin'
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| Brains hangin' out your wig, you a Fig Newton
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| Pie cooker, word to Jimmy «Fly» Snuka
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| Tomahawk dunk on all of you five-footers, uh
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| Speaker knocker, this that 45 woofer
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| Slaughter guys, and this hit was ordered by the Butcher
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| Payne, more bananas than the zoo
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| Gorilla, and all my hammers got that panoramic view
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| You niggas gamble with life 'til that cannon blam at you
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| Small-minded, blow out your brain and expand a nigga view
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| Raw specimen, pure medicine
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| Benny said clean niggas up, I’m George Jefferson
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| Black Sopranos, we workin', three quarters Mexican
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| Bars hit you like findin' out your daughter a lesbian
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| We got 'em hooked, it’s the drugs that they came for
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| Leatherface, it’s still blood on my chainsaw
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| Shower Posse, niggas love when the rain pour
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| Sorcerer, the torturer, that’s what they call me Payne for
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| OBH hammer, let a spark go
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| Got that big AR-Ab, I’m in the Dark Lo
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| Bumpin' Lik Moss, I pull up, then I park slow
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| Bananas and pineapples, nigga, no Kevin Hart though (Payne)
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| (The Butcher comin', nigga)
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| Yo, I got the green light from OGs that fathered the era
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| But what I did with a pot gon' make it hard to compare us (Facts)
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| I wash the blood off the money that my daughters inherit
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| And kept the barrel so hot that it fog up the mirrors
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| These niggas rap, so next time we into some shit, check it
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| Look, I ain’t gon' clip you, I’m gettin' your bitch pregnant
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| Up early, serve you 28 grams with breakfast
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| And I could charge tuition to give you my wrist method
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| In the trap five straight hours, blendin' up fine gray powder
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| The fumes knock you out like Deontay Wilder
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| I call it get rich music, but y’all say albums
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| For niggas who got the long bids and lost they values (Uh huh)
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| Look, it’s crazy up in Attica, they wildin' up in Sing Sing
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| Me against the world like Pat Riley and the Dream Team
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| Level three vest, MAC-90 with a green beam (Brrr)
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| Dead body on a dead body, I done seen things
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| Ah, the ride back with the stress
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| Supply packs to your steps, but I’m taxin' to death
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| I used to wanna get a contract with the Nets
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| But that changed when I got in contact with a connect, ah
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| Yeah, look, it’s do or die, nigga, you decide
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| Last nigga shot at me and missed, it was like committin' suicide (That smoke)
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| Think it’s a game? |
| All we do it slide
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| Brodie on the backseat shootin' some shit that’s Lil Uzi-size (Boom, boom, boom,
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| boom)
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| Yeah, only hittin' above the neck (Huh)
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| I stopped robbin', gave the mask and the gloves a rest (Uh huh)
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| I flew to Cali just to find a new drug connect
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| And I still got a good rapport with all the plugs I met (That's a fact, nigga)
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| Yeah, I don’t know why you pussy niggas bother
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| Big FN bullets flip a nigga Charger (Doot, doot, doot, doot)
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| Your favorite rappers is my sons, I’m you niggas' fathers
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| I’m the reason all them niggas tryna spit it harder (Hah)
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| You rap like you trappin', you made pennies (Picture that)
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| We 'bout that action, we clappin', we spray semis (Yeah, nigga)
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| Connect send me the package, I made plenty
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| I don’t fuck with no nigga that rap if it ain’t Benny, motherfuckers (Brrr,
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| yeah) |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Dirty Harry , by - Benny the Butcher. Song from the album The Plugs I Met, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп