| 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…
|
| 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
|
| 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
|
| 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
|
| Pack burners that’ll give niggas the war, it’s real
|
| Nickel plated tech with the shiny pearl handle
|
| Red infer' beam on the so-called vandal
|
| Original legits, still cool like Summer Sam
|
| You got a three hundred watt, with a low key light candle
|
| Burning up the jam, oh, Donna can’t cook
|
| 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
|
| Niggas that play sometime, most of the time
|
| With the nine, big dummy bullets are blind
|
| So to arm me and protect, you gotta move correct
|
| And play humble, as you prepare for the rumble
|
| Then glide like a snake, and let off like the bumble
|
| Two bigger trigger, I figure I got a lotta
|
| One tough, hit the fucked up by Don Dada
|
| I’m my all black self, with the 90 shot clip
|
| 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
|
| Thirty eight pistol, handle rough like Crisco
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| Cousin Cappa, shatter competition like crystal
|
| If, life’s a hustle, I grind it out
|
| So I can cop the big face, watch, diamoned out
|
| Eyes chinky in the Bentley, pulling up in the drive way
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| Like Sinatra, nigga, I did it my way
|
| Repping East side, with guns on each side
|
| 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
|
| 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
|
| 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
|
| Hitting hoods hard with that heroine lean
|
| 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
|
| Yeah, uh-huh, Street Flavor, word up
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| Yeah, nigga, uh-huh, give it up or get slumped, nigga
|
| That’s how we coming through…
|
| Fifty one, thirty six, Bel Air Road, nigga
|
| Street Flavor… |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Wu-South , by - Cappadonna. Song from the album Wu South Vol.1 The Perscription, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп