Lyrics On My Briefcase - Brotha Lynch Hung, Phonk Beta, Zagg

On My Briefcase

Now on my briefcase was some crumbled weed
A pack of Saravegas and a 24 ounce O. E
Might as well skeez these couple of hoes
In my 69 Malibu sitting on Trues and Vogues
For days you might have seen me in my cinnamon cut chrome shoes
With some you-can't-see-me tint on the windows indo syndrome
Smokin' it up, not givin' a mutherfucking fizuck
Sold the cut, my ex-ho said «that nigga’s sqattin' what?»
Got at the homie Carl, and got me some of that bomb
Had me so fucking high I got off like Vietnam
Dead bodies and bitches clits simmerin' in the crockpot
And the shit don’t stop until my motherfucking chronic or high drop
It’s just that insane type of thing, let the MAC rain.
Guts in the drain
Siccmade niggas, they make the world go round
And if you fuck with Siccmade Music you can get your ass gunned down
(Phonk Beta):
I had a homie who stayed up in Alaska (what he used to do?)
Used to transfer flights over Nebraska
And flew me back about a ounce of that Alaska indica weed
And out of the whole zip possessed one seed
Had it wrapped real tight all up in cellophane
Can’t have the K-9 dogs smell it, man
If only you saw what I was seein', the buds was almost pure white, but not green
Had to be one of those one-hitter quitter dome splitters
It’s the type a tweed that makes you wanna fuck your babysitter
I roll a fattie, when I roll this fattie
Niggas’ll be all 'noid wondering why they lookin at me
Bitches have the nerve to say my shit ain’t bomb
But it’ll have your lungs burning, like you’re puffing on napalm
(Zagg):
I wipe that sweat up off my forehead, I’m off the kush
Lay back and take a comfortable hit, with a Q-tip, it’s splitting my lips
And my dome stays split off toothpicks
I hit a lick with a quickness, dumping dead bodies in ditches
Appreciate the fact, so come correct, cause I could be vicious
Suspicious, comin' up on recognition I’m creepin' up from behind
With a 12 gauge, non-fiction, I’m all prepared to go for mine
So step in line, a couple of hits, dome split, I be lit on a for real basis
With a machete I’ll slice your neck just like them Jason cases
Murder traces, but I ain’t pinned cause there’s no evidence
Slight scent of that purple kush plant, and I can almost sense the essence
What’s the lesson?
Get tested, don’t come if you can’t come correct
It’s that West Coast shit for life.
I don’t know what you expected
I’m reckless, nevertheless I’m a pimp in a bulletproof vest
Putting it down, pound and pound, you need to take a step down
.50 caliber rounds, I’m running through your whole town
Buckin' em down like Doom set on deathmatch with the BFG-9000 cartoon