Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Down Foe My Thang, artist - Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. Date of issue: 20.06.1994
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Down Foe My Thang |
| Creepin' up outta the woods, gotta give love to my hood |
| Smoke, and I choke, and I creep on a come up |
| Niggas be tryin run up, but I bust, and they drop to their death |
| Now they done up |
| Gun up, hunt my blunt up |
| Creepin' 'til sun up, feelin' slightly shady |
| Call me lightweight crazy, number one nigga little Layzie |
| Nigga don’t wanna fight |
| Runnin' deadly thugsta soldiers, droppin' them thangs |
| Bone done told ya |
| Testin' nuts, so a nigga gonna have to show ya |
| Faded a nigga that stepped up. |
| Let’s slip in some shit |
| See 'em alls just stood up then put a foot up that ass |
| Had to blast that click-click |
| Sprayed the gauge, all cocked, and ready to spray down to the pave |
| Puttin' them souls up off in them graves |
| Dwell in Hell, they’ll all lay slayed |
| Amazed, must I blaze |
| It’s insane when I take that bud to the brain |
| Toke, choke, holdin' me smoke until-a me strained, feelin' no pain |
| Better be packin' your weapon, 'cause my shit is kept |
| And I’m ready to let loose sawed-off hangin' |
| Danglin' up under the trench, fin to blow that chest |
| But you shoulda wore a vest, fool, 'cause the Bone don’t front |
| Nigga check or get wrecked |
| Got Flesh on the set, with his finger on a TEC |
| Loc’d out with the khakis and high techs |
| Respect them St. Clair thugs |
| Hustlin' drugs, gotta make that money, man |
| Rap be the thang, and the fact remains that we owns that rap game |
| Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thang |
| Bone be me gang |
| We runnin' with no hoes, and the bigger Bone that’s |
| Known for gettin' his swerve on and kickin' it on the stage |
| (Off in the rag), gettin' my serve on |
| So, leave 'em alone. |
| They come |
| They need to be shown that Bone done chrome, blown |
| Lay slugs up in to them domes, so go on |
| You’d rather go run a ho check, if you wanna test nuts with Flesh |
| I’m feelin' to lynch ya, mo murda |
| You’re runnin' up eye to eye with death |
| Praise the Flesh, now nevertheless you’re takin' a loss |
| And this slug snuffed up, and dumpin' the body up off in a coffin |
| Remember the vow said a preacher, me teach 'em |
| (winnin'/greetin') 'em with me nine, runnin' with thugs |
| And hustlas and murderin' 'em every time |
| Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thang |
| Bone be me gang |
| Remember the Ripsta, sinister creeper |
| Reapin' up that set with a street-sweeper |
| Gotta take a breather from sippin' me liter |
| Rippin' that flesh when I sneak with a meat cleaver |
| When I’m in me smug, never the studio thugsta |
| Buck 'em, buck 'em, motherfuck 'em |
| Thug never done bluff and fuck them bustas |
| So back up off me. |
| No stack won’t let me slip |
| When a nigga start to step, the weapon, put 'em in the graveyard |
| Bitch, better buy your vest, then test Rest, the Ripsta |
| Quick to pick up the hollow points |
| And put 'em up in your brains, nigga |
| My little nigga, Mo! |
| Hart, my bigger nigga, Sin, dash fast |
| Get up with the block at last blast they ass, pass cash, then stash |
| Me can killa for free for homies and family |
| Tell 'em to see me, that realer nigga, the Ripsta, put 'em in rivers |
| It don’t stop, drop P’s to the SCT’s and double Glock |
| Pop pop, here’s the slug from the twelve gauge thug |
| You don’t want fuck with, no buck with, Rip’s breakin' 'em bustas |
| Blood, me fillin' 'em, like that nightmare, me murder |
| I show no mercy |
| Turn your back, clack back me gat, diggin' 'em in the dirt, see |
| Get ready to duck, bitch, or get fucked up |
| They never could fuck with me sawed-off pump |
| Bitch, if I’m flippin' or load my clip in, nigga, y’all all fucked |
| Gotta make my money |
| Slippin' me pump in my trench, and then click it |
| Now, nigga, it’s rippin', steady clippin' |
| Not missin', thuggin' with me click |
| And now Leatherface |
| Takin' your life so ya best stay back |
| Tossin' the rest in a coffin, 'cause niggas be runnin' up, talkin' trash |
| Buck a guard while walkin' past |
| Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thangs |
| And I claim and hang with Ts |
| Niggas that make cheese for the green leaves |
| Gotta give peace, cause they swang these |
| Come, nigga, meet my hood |
| And fulla nothin' but thugs and hustlas: Sin never been no busta |
| He’ll stuff and buck-buck 'em and dump 'em, bitch |
| Nigga, muthafuck 'em |
| Krayzie don’t love 'em, put 'em to rest and run |
| So the po-po don’t catch up--nigga can’t be arrested |
| One M-11 me sendin' niggas to hell, a felon 187 |
| Eleven dwellin' better from the cell |
| And nigga that pick up Mossberg |
| The quicker you to the curb |
| Put one to the temple, pump, to Mr. Policeman |
| That’s all you heard |
| Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thang |
| Bone be me gang |
| Bang, bang, bang, bang |