Lyrics Lone Star - Bun B, Jon Connor, GLC

Lone Star

Down South, sittin' low
Subs, subs, in my trunk
Midwest, pimpin' hoes, twenty-six's on the truck
Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Parking lot pimpin' with the candy painted doors topped
Now I’m still flippin' in the 'Caddy sittin' low
I told her: Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Nigga, I was down South (down South)
Sittin' up in the House of Blues, chilling
I catch these hoes, I don’t catch feelings
Yep, real nigga in the building
Midwest game so cold, ya’ll should have knew that
Born and raised in the mitten
Thick motherfucker, I knew I had to get it
She had three kids, I paid for the sitter
Her girl came with her;
part-time hater, full-time stripper
She had an ex-man, and the ho still bitter
Thought I was gonna kiss ass for the ass, how the fuck you figure?
No, wrong;
I ain’t gotta do all that
My nigga just came with the liquor
Shots of Ciroc get your girls on the floor
Now she got her ass on the floor right with her
Everybody drinkin', everybody faded
She ask is it good for the night, you the greatest
This how it supposed to go down now, ain’t it?
Square-ass niggas got the game all tainted
Spoiling hoes that don’t want a thing
Wife the hoes that don’t want your ring
She run the game, she could coach the team
That’s why I handle mine how it’s supposed to be
Please don’t confuse me with these fucking coos (fucking coos)
Sippin'-ass lames like it’s something cool (something cool)
You know I’m pullin' up, in something smooth (something smooth)
G’d the fuck up, first day of school (ism) (first day of school)
Aw, shit, your bitch is so promiscuous (damn) (promiscuous)
She a runner, you should see the shit she did (damn) (shit she did)
I ain’t lay up with her, I just hit and slid (never) (hit and slid)
I can’t do that shit, I’m a pimp, you dig?
(I'm a pimp, you dig?)
Midwest mackin', as it manifest (manifest)
Cathedral-fied ism, nothing less (nothing less)
Big breasts feel so good all on my chest (on my chest)
I’m an addict for this pussy, yes I must confess
Down South, sittin' low
Subs, subs, in my trunk
Midwest, pimpin' hoes, twenty-six's on the truck
Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Parking lot pimpin' with the candy painted doors topped
Now I’m still flippin' in the 'Caddy sittin' low
I told her: Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho
Yeah, you know I’m a lone star, and my homie’s that Lone Star
Where them gangstas is known for having they own 'Dro, and they own bar
Baddest bitches that’s ballin' out with they own crib, and they own car
And when it come down to Texas, man there ain’t too many places that’s on par
Candy painted slab, rollin' up and down the ave
See them jazzy, yellow bras, with that big old ass to grab
We cuttin' corners, poppin' trunks, and we swangin', bustin' Sweets down
As we burn them Swishers up, and burn these streets down
Walking tall in my neighborhood, and I’m known for puttin' my feet down
Frontin' on a trill nigga, man guaranteed you gon' catch a beat-down
Your girl wanna swallow my meat down, and I’m inclined to let her
Trill O.G.
about the cheddar, and can’t no nigga do it any better
Hold up, man
Know what I’m talking 'bout?
The motherfuckin' confession of a motherfuckin' true bonafide, mackin' blessing
Know what I’m talking 'bout?
Rotating with my nigga Jon Connor, and we always seem to amaze and astonish
Know what I’m talking 'bout?
Motherfuckin' Ism is the motherfuckin' streets, rotating with my true playa
partner by the name of Bun B
Know what I’m talking 'bout?
Cathedral to the congregation
Know what I’m talking 'bout?
No more strangulation, raise your motherfuckin' pimping up and join this
motherfuckin' Ism nation
Divorce the bullshit, marry the motherfuckin' Ism
Church!