| Top down, bitches drop down to their knees
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| When they’re in the midst of some real G’s
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| Real G shit — AK’s with banana clips
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| Bring out the inner gorilla you son of a bitch
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| I’mma take a big hit, hold it in, let it go
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| Inhale, exhale, only marijuana smoke
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| No joke, man I ain’t even laughing
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| Ain’t no time to argue, squeeze a trigger and let the gun blast
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| All my hitters and bitches and real killers and drug dealers
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| I hold it down for you cause I be a vandetta in G flag
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| Of what color
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| Bitch you look at me sideways I cut your eye out with a box cutter
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| See me dog no collar, no chain
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| And my bark and bite are equal so they one and the same
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| I ain’t new to the game so don’t play a punk with me
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| Grab your toilet paper cause I turn your whole life shitty
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| (They call that gangsta)
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| What I’m doing, who I be
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| Ain’t nobody dead or alive even fucking with me
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| (Gangsta)
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| Born in the back of a lowrider with hydraulics and spokes
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| And them low pro tires
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| Baptizin' 40's behind the liquor store
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| With my young G’s, so we dreamin of gettin more
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| (Gangsta)
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| That’s what you call gangsta, y’all RuPauls
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| No balls when we check of your shit you guys are too small
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| We move off in the direction, with less stress and more sexin'
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| From the section, that means your woman are now our lesson
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| Me and Blaze don’t check, they want 'em down
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| Collect what it gotta be in our circle of this shit
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| No sweatin', these suckas know all occasion
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| Cause punks they get their hatin'
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| We sprayin' at the sweater
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| We got a Satan at gun point already
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| Let it rain confetii, if you dead and gone that’s savvy
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| We skeet off in them pirellis
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| Them boys were never jelly
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| We shoot it out, get burried
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| I’m mashin', pumping out in my box chevy like who’s ready?
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| My belly always stuffed with chumps — I eat em up
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| With their luck so what, we’re never help you ain’t born tough
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| Note to self, you see me head down, let’s talk
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| I’m beating my chest, I’m worldwide you can’t get enough
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| Too many wankstas? |
| and prankstas
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| Not enough gangstas, gun butters and shankstas
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| Tell me what you bang for, I’m pulsin' these niggas anger
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| These fists cuffed tangler the Queens County Strangler
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| Lex the Hex Master, trenching the necks bastard
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| Claiming he drops classics, smack 'em back to Jurassic
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| Practicin' black magic while makin' factory caskets
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| I’ll leave gash, stickin' and movin' just call me Cassius
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| We’re not affiliated, packin' heavy radiator
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| Sorry, real G’s don’t find skinny jeans intimidating
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| All initiated cowards get asphyxiated
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| Flow’s sophisticated so Lex is highly anticipated
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| Faith tainted, my face painted, I must be sick
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| Maintained to stay faded to fuck a bitch
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| And by that time next year they y’all know me
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| Hex the Master, The R.O.C. |
| and Blaze ya Dead Homie |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song They Call That Gangsta , by - Blaze Ya Dead Homie. Song from the album The Casket Factory, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп