| Yeah
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| That’s right
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| Hey
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| Run It
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| Fly boy eighty fo’s for my landing gear
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| Runway lights on my neck wrist hand and ear
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| I look like a chandelier you can point the camera here
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| Alert TMZ, because the man is here
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| Hey, I’m so photogenic, gratzi paparazzi
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| I’m looking like money you try’na get it watch me
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| Just got my pilots license and a fly ride
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| Only difference is I don’t drive I skydive
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| Haters try’na pull my parachute but I’m in the wind
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| I’m in sumthin' jet blue, no top, butter skin
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| I’m hotter than a furnace and I just left (???)
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| Y’all talking wood wheel but a nigga really turnin (hey)
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| First class killa, y’all niggas coach
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| Y’all get slices, I get loafs
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| Mile high club, elite access
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| I’m a G-four jet y’all niggas Southwest (YEAH!)
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| Let’s talk money cause I’m bout that
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| Man Killa you broke, yeah I so doubt that
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| I know you haters would like to see a nigga off note
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| But I am not a singer if that’s what’cha hope
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| I’m three times crazy like the boy out the oak
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| Man I’m the shit, (I'm the shit) y’all shit don’t float (hey)
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| Bitch ass niggas keep dropping that stoap
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| While I walk in this booth and keep dropping that dope
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| I’m gettin green like Scope, bitches gargle my dick
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| And I a in’t even gotta ask cause they swallow don’t spit
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| Y’all sorta like my hoes y’all niggas don’t spit
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| I hear you niggas records you ain’t talking bout shit (YEAH!)
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| Psycho-path whip, suicide on the damn doors
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| Gucci backpack I ain’t never rock Jansport
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| Green paper stacks from the ceiling to the damn floor
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| Dollar signs money M.O.E. |
| is what I stand for
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| Slab cars out for the hell of it when get boy
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| Black Chevy, black Dodge, black Lac, black Porsche
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| Black seats, black floors, black skin, black Porsche
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| Freak bitches tell me is my pants is a black horse
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| Vote for Barack, shit we all made a black choice
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| Neck already platinum what the fuck I need it plaque for?
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| Black diamonds in the wrist, well time to add more
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| Black hoes, black whores, white bricks, black source
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| Black Jordans, ice grill, rose gold, yella boy
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| Drankin' on that medication syruped out skelator
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| Legendary with the blue pill call me Eddie George
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| Run it like a running-back, projects door-to-door
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| We say forty-fo' y’all say forty-four
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| Dirty south, different slang, different kane, better drugs
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| Bigger bucks, sniffin' mugs, what up blood, what up cuz
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| Y’all make it rain and drizzle, we make it rain and flood
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| Boys say they hustlin' but lying like welcome rugs
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| Duece fo’s on each car I ride in like Kobe, brah
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| Underneath my seat is high heat stay packing slugs
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| Just in case they try to jack it like Lettermans
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| I’m so sick I need more than Exced’rins
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| Asthma attack tracks like Kanye, no hesitance
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| Y’all niggas jock Lil Ray swag it’s irrelevant
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| Get so much brain I am filled with intelligence
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| Ed Hardy* jean pockets deep full of gelaton
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| Name ten rappers I ain’t better than
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| Y’all niggas suck that’s evident, paid like Federline
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| And «fuck Lil Ray «no thanks I’m celibate
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| Prada kicks on my car (???)
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| In the streets so much my popularity is like the president
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| They don’t wanna see a nigga levitate, cause they hoes
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| Playa haters with disease call jealousy
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| Never Misdemeanor, I’m felony
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| Cut Beyonce and made her sing in that falsetta melody
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| Boss Hogg run the streets heavily
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| Young nigga stay with old money I got gwap from the seventies
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| Pull up in that drop on them Elliots
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| I call the rims Missy Elliots because the lips on 'em are very thick
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| Candy red paint looking cherry-ish
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| Styrofoam cup full of purple, no alcoholic beverages
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| It’s Lil Ray Ya Bitch! |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Murder They Wrote (feat. Killa Kyleon & Lil Ray) , by - Chamillionaire. Song from the album Mixtape Messiah 6, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп