| It’s a must that I bust any strap ya hand ta me
|
| It’s inherited, it runs in the family
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| Niggas in the town got pounds of beef
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| Threaten a niggas life, make it sound so sweet
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| I peel 'em back like corn-on-the-cob, cap peel 'em
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| Make 'em sound like a whore on the job
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| Witta Mac in the backpack, fulla that crack sack
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| Gettin' it off (Better have my muthafuckin money)
|
| Bitch where my siccmade 'til I die shit, nobody saw
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| So I was able ta wipe the blood off the hallway walls
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| Ain’t got nothin ta live for
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| Can’t even trust a bitch, might have ta leave her alone
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| Ma had ta dig a ditch, shit so rigorous
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| Dealin' wit hataz, snitchaz, and bitchaz, get they brains gone
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| Find a new home, you one life is gone
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| Cuz I’m O-One, check the clock
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| And if these walls could talk, muthafuckaz’ll be shot
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| I’m about ta go 51−50, got nobody wit me
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| Stressed out like Whitney, Bobby Brown, weed and whiskey
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| Smokin' Newports, no support
|
| But like Too Short I keep it goin'
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| Shootin' up forts, who in this sport wanna fuck wit me
|
| Come on the court, rippin' out insides
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| Puttin' stains on thangs, that’s when I rip-ride
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| And I slip-slide through the Gardens witta bloody t-shirt, it won’t hurt
|
| Look at this way, 6 feet deep in the dirt won’t hurt
|
| Flirtin' wit murda, I leave 'em unheard of
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| And I’m sicca than period pads drippin'
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| All over your hands gettin'
|
| The back seat or the trunk, it’s your choice
|
| Dead or alive, smothered and fried
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| The way you better uncover your eyes, I’m in the skies
|
| Witta 9 tryin' ta take out your spine
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| Nobody know crime, throw up that sicc sign
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| And strike hard like stricc-nine
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| No recovery, you other G niggas betta duck
|
| Leave you in the tuxed up
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| Psycho, off the wall like Michael
|
| Always paranoid cuz I be blowin' out that nitro
|
| All day, every day, murda spray, got you in Glad Bags
|
| Headed for the pad, and you can ask my dad
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| I was a scavenger, 14 years old eatin' scabs
|
| Graduated ta nigga meat, but I don’t wanna brag
|
| Fuck Jeffry Dohmer, he a muthafuckin fag
|
| I got nigga nuts and guts in the bag, draggin' 'em ta the pad
|
| (Corpse came ta dinner)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| (Corpse came ta dinner)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| (Corpse came ta dinner)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| (Corpse came ta dinner)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Fuck under the influence, I’m hella fucked up
|
| Swervin' down the freeway, spillin' my cup
|
| Tryin' take you out this rap on the Underbelly
|
| He ain’t shit, he 'bout ta be in the trunk smelly
|
| By me and my Relly, you never know
|
| Whatever tho, I got auto magazines and that weak intro
|
| What you got against me?
|
| Don’t you know I rip niggas up, turn 'em ta minced meat
|
| Well if you got some sense, beat it, like raw eggs
|
| I used ta have hella homies, now they all hate
|
| But I’mma leave it alone, I’m on my own like a voodoo nigga
|
| If a nigga want ta get ate, what would you do nigga
|
| I was too cool wit 'em, group of niggas and they tripped on me
|
| Gave 'em a little bit of fame, then they dipped on me
|
| But you know, it’s all in the game, tell the crip homie
|
| Ta hit 'em witta slug in the brain, that’s what you get from me
|
| Crash dummy, your careers defected
|
| And you ain’t sold a record last time I checked it
|
| You just keep knockin', I feel disrespected
|
| Now your neck got disconnected by the Lynch Hung necklace
|
| Hey, I leave 'em red, and I don’t eat the head
|
| Let the Tec spit and chop niggas down ta the ground like Judge Dread
|
| Come up in the door lookin' just like a fed
|
| And you call yourself a rap vet
|
| Get out the bed, and let me fuck her like she should be fucked
|
| All in the butt, wit the 9 milly, swallowin' nut
|
| And you see me in black clothes, creepin' from the back
|
| Don’t know how ta act, black blankets fulla Mac’s
|
| I use 'em for nutsacks and full body sacks
|
| Better not let your daughter out, end up in the slaughter house
|
| Chokin' and spittin', chest open and bleedin'
|
| And me fuckin' her from the back, and I hope for you ta see it
|
| (Corpse came ta dinner)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| (Corpse came ta dinner)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| (Hey Folks, open the door nigga)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
|
| (Nah, nah, open the trunk)
|
| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask
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| Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |