| Yeah… Street Flavor. |
| yeah. |
| you know?
|
| Yo, Cap, it’s Rush… murder one, no love
|
| Call a nigga from North Carolina
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| That’s what it is, New York City…
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| Bolo, what up? |
| Cack-lack…
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| I’ll break a nigga back, when I’m holding the mack
|
| Me and Cap bridging the gap, on one track
|
| The S.I.N.Y. |
| and the Cack-lack
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| I crack a nigga open like I’m drinking six packs
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| It’s on and popping in the bottom
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| Stop a nigga in the mud if he got a problem
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| It’s dirty out here, walk around with so much ice
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| I need a slay, Wayne Gretzky and they call me when it sudden death
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| I feel like Rocky when he ran a hundred steps
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| That ain’t beef, that’s pocket meat on your chest, boy
|
| I move keys like I’m on the keyboard
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| Big Rush on the Triton, I got the license
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| To pay a sniper when I’m writing
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| On this microphone, I’m Mike Tyson
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| How Street Fighter niggas call me M. Bison
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| I stay high in my blood pressure, the slug’ll dead ya
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| Pack burners that’ll give niggas the war, it’s real
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| Nickel plated tech with the shiny pearl handle
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| Red infer' beam on the so-called vandal
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| Original legits, still cool like Summer Sam
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| You got a three hundred watt, with a low key light candle
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| Burning up the jam, oh, Donna can’t cook
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| You and the dummy hit the head, Oh Donna had you hooked
|
| On the snub nose, because I never dug those
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| Part time crime, bust me from behind
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| Niggas that play sometime, most of the time
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| With the nine, big dummy bullets are blind
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| So to arm me and protect, you gotta move correct
|
| And play humble, as you prepare for the rumble
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| Then glide like a snake, and let off like the bumble
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| Two bigger trigger, I figure I got a lotta
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| One tough, hit the fucked up by Don Dada
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| I’m my all black self, with the 90 shot clip
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| Waiting patiently for my posse to flip
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| So I can wet something love-love, push come to shove-shove
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| Might have to wet a nigga up with the snub bug
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| Thirty eight pistol, handle rough like Crisco
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| Cousin Cappa, shatter competition like crystal
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| If, life’s a hustle, I grind it out
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| So I can cop the big face, watch, diamoned out
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| Eyes chinky in the Bentley, pulling up in the drive way
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| Like Sinatra, nigga, I did it my way
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| Repping East side, with guns on each side
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| Last nigga tried, you know that he died
|
| Who real round here, blue steel round here
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| Little ears on the block, get ya peeled round here
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| I’m the man with the rock, giving feels round here
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| If you want it, I can get that, hit you with a big pack
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| Don’t bring my shit back, six in your knick knacks
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| Don’t mean no harm, but I’m shooting with big gats
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| This and a flip jack’ll make your ass flip back
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| Yeah, fuck that, uh-huh, walk with me
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| I’m good with thousand grams, and a well in the will
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| While you polly in the hood, I’m on Federal Hill
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| Moving and shaking, underground, using Jamaicans
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| Moving these cakes in Montego, shoot up, ya naked
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| Get on and beat it, charge money, son, it’s large money
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| Rubberband wrapped under the hard wood floor, money
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| And I ain’t gonna spend a red cent
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| I’m just sitting on bread, try’nna get this red shit
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| I live for them dead presidents, ever since there was facts, high paids
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| I was try’nna get paid, nigga, I left 10th grade, for the american dream
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| Hitting hoods hard with that heroine lean
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| You only dream about my way of life, day or night
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| I’mma get it, just as long as we poor, fuck the law
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| Yeah, uh-huh, Street Flavor, word up
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| Yeah, nigga, uh-huh, give it up or get slumped, nigga
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| That’s how we coming through…
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| Fifty one, thirty six, Bel Air Road, nigga
|
| Street Flavor… |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Wu-South, artist - Cappadonna. Album song Wu South Vol.1 The Perscription, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп