Lyrics Handles - Boss Hogg, B-Luv, Husalah

Handles

I’m ‘bout to get it right, bubblin' all night
Hustlin', man, that’s most of my life
Fuck Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’m out on the streets
Stoppin' traffic, not worried about police
And they punk sweeps, see, I got fronted the zip
By my older cousin, and when he gave it he said this:
'Shit, go carefully, be wit' it, slick
You don’t want a case to fight.'
'A'ight, I get it.'
To the track for scritch, now ain’t this a bitch
I damn near made it happen, but somebody was jealous
And told I was crackin', but fuck it see
They gotta live for workin' with police
Laughin' at authorities, to hell with the station
Plus, a shell to whoever gave Vallejo information
Patient, who stay with his head achin'
Up all night tryna right my bacon, hustle
And while my nigga Boss on the S-T straight hustlin'
I’m networkin', still at your B and I’m bustin'
And who I’m trustin'?
Not nann nigga
Hustlin' in a different form tryna get it bigger
Mouthpiece so hard on a broad, no labor
Hustlin', never playin' Captain Save-a-
Hoe, you should know B-Luv ain’t playin'
Like a poodle, she obeyin' everything that I’m sayin'
Enough of that, though;
a million things goin' through my mind
But I handle it like a soldier gettin' blapped at on the frontline
Takin' all bullets, even shells
My life’s a big hustle and I’mma show and tell
Never been materialistic, everything’s for sale
Beatin' ‘em to the punch like Bill Gates for the mail
Just like a crack fiend need blow, got to have it
That’s how I be, green in my face, got to grab it
Me and my amigos, we seein' chips
Come through dipped in European whips
Beats slappin', we so mackish
Giggin' in somethin' so throwbackish
No practice, it’s all on auto
Old school dope game like Troops and Lottos
Don’t use the bottle but boy I’m dope
Just like a 30, eye through the scope
My niggas move more snow than ski slopes
Y’all niggas is lame, don’t know the ropes
I don’t know your folks, fuck ‘em, they weenies
My niggas jack saps, put holes in beanies
Get it, get it, get it, eat it and shit it
Every time I done it, they say he did it
Mac Dre, keep a heater on me
And touch more bread than salami
It’s the muthafuckin' Husalah Husalah
How could you make a song about hustlin'
Without the Husalah, man, it’s nothin'
You’re petty coat pushin', I’m 26 kickin' it
Cross country sippin' it
Pay me 25, I only pay one-sixth of it
Dumb dewy fresh, yeah
Trill shit, I’m livin' it, Mob ‘til my death
1, 2, 3, get your scrill right, nigga
On the darkside of life, you’ll find me, a dope dealer
Husalah Husalah, a sideways leaner
If I twist six off, I’mma bring back nina
My 4−5 spark, your lights’ll go dark
And I still got work for cheap
My hustle won’t slack off until I get my smack off
Pull my stog out on a poor bitch and jack off
I don’t need sex, I need Tecs and 4−5's
A muthafuckin' Husalah Husalah like WHA!