Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song We Reppin' (Y'all), artist - Benzino.
Date of issue: 31.12.2000
Song language: English
We Reppin' (Y'all) |
Uh-uh, uh uh uh |
Uh-uh, uh uh uh |
Uh-uh, uh uhhh! |
Mr. Gzus, Twice Thou |
Ray Benzino! |
I spit that thug shit, the whole world wanna bang to |
Amazin, Mr. Benzino from the Made Men |
Half Peurto Rican, half black, still blazin |
Steel bangin on the handle of my gun |
I be Hangman (Hangman), Mr. Bang-bang man |
Catch you in your hall, while you Mr. Slang-thang man |
Fold you up like a bangy pair of Guess jeans |
I guess you know what I mean, 9−15 |
Be the murderer, niggas that I be rollin with |
Control shit, we thirty dirty deep Bonie clique |
Light that blunt, burn that hash, keep it movin yo |
(Made Men catch wreckin anybody studio) |
Your days are numbered nigga (what?) you better bounce |
Got thirty-two rounds in my twenty ounce |
Blue nickel, new pistol performs in the physical form |
Squeeze slugs 'til the gun jam, any mission I’m on |
Black leather doo-rag, two Mags with speed loaders |
I’m a weed smoker, my cylinder spins, chillin ya mens |
Loudmouth niggas catch it the worst, for example |
I’ll shoot the shit out of you -- and ya man too |
Leave ya bodies in the gutter, cut up for the streetsweeper |
Hack you the fuck up with a meat cleaver, retreat nigga |
Take a seat dog, while we bang to this beat dog |
Or pose, I’ll pump holes in ya meat dog |
To city kids and pretty bricks, saditty chicks |
Hood rats and them killa cats, we reppin y’all |
For niggas that’s locked for 'ricks |
GD’s on blocks that got nine’s to spit, we reppin y’all |
These streets that be keepin it real, throwin money in ya grill |
Strapped with the steel, we reppin y’all |
To niggas that’s gettin mil’s, playin ball |
All my ladies and all my dogs, we reppin y’all |
I’ma keep it crackin like the Earth from it’s axis |
Non-stop spittin hot shit with no practice |
With this iron, I’m a blacksmith |
With shit to make ya backflip |
From the clap you do the twist and then you don’t exist |
Just for being a hostle, thug imposter |
On sight, fuckin pop ya (Pow!) Drop ya |
Hit a nigga proper with these shells made of copper |
Hollow’s, Made Men what? |
The gunfire follow |
My sharp shooters mentally ill, in Bentley’s we chill |
Got cash and bought everything we ain’t steal |
And many clips to fill cuz these streets stay real |
We bring the heat, now you know how gettin burned feel |
Yo get peeled |
We stack right? |
Benzino catch you while yo creepin, try yo' best right? |
Just make sure you don’t get caught sleepin, whistle deaf right? |
You not believin what you seein, infrared right? |
You niggas dead right? |
Slippin in clips right? |
These niggas wanna go to war, it’s time to ride right? |
But when it’s time to get it on they run and hide right? |
They gonna make me run up in the crib and flip right? |
My niggas rip right? |
See I’m on top now |
And if you wanna fuck around then you’ll get shot now |
Don’t let me send my Boston niggas to your block now |
Then make 'em strip you to your knees and take your Glock now |
We got it locked now… (Nigga) |