Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Welcome to Your Own Death, artist - Brotha Lynch Hung. Album song SiccMixx, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 28.06.2004
Record label: Orchard
Song language: English
Welcome to Your Own Death |
| And as I bail through the woods of the southside |
| Terror Zone, nine milli chrome, kill alone cause I trust no snitch |
| When I peel a dome and bail |
| Gone like hell right through the do |
| I’m rollin' a fat sack of red boogy boo, nigga ooh |
| Watch me bail, nigga but you don’t see me though |
| Cause I’m rollin' fat sacks in the back of my vehicle |
| But takin' a puff of the dank stuff |
| And enough that double O-A-E dooz me |
| I’m slowly loadin' up the UZI |
| Well now who’s he? |
| Well, it’s that dead motherfucker doe |
| Well, whatcha know, comin' through with that murder mo |
| And I heard you know, now whose been bustin' up on the garden blocc |
| You either give up the information |
| Nigga or get shot, so nigga now what! |
| I guess you wanna dose of this milla |
| Twenty-four shots from that momma’s baby killa |
| Nigga mack hustla, cap busta, in fact I’m just a MAC-10 |
| Bustin' em at your chin before I crept nigga |
| Welcome to your own death |
| Nigga welcome to your own death x6 |
| (BUCK! For them who don’t know bout loc to da brain |
| Them got them nine millimeter strap and true is the game) x2 |
| Some niggas miss my sicc |
| Some niggas don’t know me, niggas don’t know my click |
| That O-loc-double-C-O-G rip gut cannibal type of shit |
| Plus many more caps bust |
| Anymore sacks to roll up, we need that high back |
| So niggas done load them nines and pull them hijacks |
| And lie back in the cut and roll another fat one up |
| Tack one up for loc to the brain |
| Them niggas that really don’t give a fuck |
| Around and get buck-shotted up and dumped in a truck and left in a cut |
| So nigga now whatcha gon do with a mini MAC-10 ten at yo gut |
| Plus niggas nuts and guts is what I rips for |
| Creepin' up in a six four impala |
| Mobbin' a loots all up to make you vomit from the raw gut cause |
| Know what I do is let my nine do the talkin' |
| Leavin' you walkin' to your funeral, loc |
| Diggin'? |
| yo smoke from the mack 1−0 |
| I had ya pussin' just in case |
| I got me a MAC-11 for your face that’s leavin' no trace |
| Caps leavin' a gate and puttin' holes in a niggas neck |
| So watch the reaper when I creep crept |
| Welcome to your own death |
| When I hit the blocc with a nine |
| Them fools better be duckin' |
| My nigga duck got out the car and started buckin' at niggas runnin' |
| Untraceable gauge shells |
| Only worry is goin' to hell |
| And 5−0 they just can’t swoop |
| See cause we mobbin' too well |
| My murder file done pile more than a nigga expected |
| See cause have of the city of Sac still ain’t accepted |
| That I’m a pack and when I’m sweated I’mma put in work |
| Cause my O-T told me why Jesus got to kick up some dirt |
| And I’m tired of warnin' a motherfucker about a nigga like me |
| When it’s hard to believe |
| The nine millimeter comin' out my pants gonna make you dance |
| See that’s the city and it’s making a motherfucker stress |
| Gotta watch your back like 24−7 |
| Unless you wanna E livin' the rest of your life |
| Up in a cemetery die nigga die you’ll repeat until you’re buried |
| That nine millimeter givin' no motherfuckin' respect |
| Up on your back with your last breath |
| Welcome to your own death |