| Ohh, uhh, uhh, uhh
|
| Diamond and heavy metal rocker, eight-tray hopper
|
| Silkk headliner, ain’t No Limit to how I Shock ya
|
| All chrome dated, they suberb when I drop her
|
| All these haters, they suberb when I cock the
|
| Nah I ain’t gon' tell ya (uh-uh) I keep that to myself
|
| But you gon' see it if you don’t let me keep it to myself
|
| Don’t make me start man, I’m from the heartland
|
| Where they might shoot you up (ohh) it’s not your heart layin
|
| Wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy down in da water
|
| Man look hurr homie, I’m from the «Show Me»
|
| And uh, you need to show me what you talkin about
|
| What all that gawkin about, or you just runnin your mouth
|
| I’m off the banks of that M-I-crooked letter-crooked letter-I
|
| The hump back girls with thighs
|
| Where they be built like bricks, praised for bein thick
|
| Or maybe skinny like a stick, but they fine as shit
|
| I stay.
|
| We stay wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy down in da water. |
| yeah
|
| Off the banks of the muddy Mississippi ready to put that ass in order
|
| (Shhhh, keep it quiet now)
|
| Wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy down in da water. |
| yeah
|
| Off the banks of the muddy Mississippi ready to put that ass in order
|
| Yo, check, yo
|
| You gettin close to me when you hit them rocks on the banks
|
| So grab your flippers, goggles and oxygen tank
|
| Go grab a wet suit, check your regulator soon
|
| Cause we pack spear guns and give niggas harpoons
|
| Then we — flood the streets, oh how they — lovin me
|
| Come through in the Buick sittin so — love-ly
|
| We like some catfish lobsters, ghetto-fied mobstas
|
| Dress sharp, smile in your face and still rob (ho)
|
| I’m natural wit it (wit it) Supreme actual factual wit it (wit it)
|
| I got them gats you got to get it, you and them cats got to get it
|
| Get it. |
| (brrrrrap, pow pow pow, brrrrrap)
|
| . |
| I’m concrete booted, all khaki Dickie suited
|
| RUN FOR COVER! |
| Somebody call up the Guinness
|
| Book of World Records, tell 'em we poppin tremendous
|
| Dirty we big truckin with weapons of mass destruction
|
| It’s the muddy St. Louis, get to it, cash is nothin
|
| It go.
|
| Yo. |
| I’m from the land of kick do’s
|
| Where niggas come through your window with pistols
|
| Like Bruh Man off the fifth flo'
|
| See the way the wrist glow, sick flow
|
| Better yet, turn off the lights, I’ll turn this bitch into a disco
|
| Hood crime highly infested
|
| Check your rap, rock and pop stations; |
| Gube Thug, highly requested
|
| And my gun like Chris, you know I’m gon' +Tucker+
|
| In a Spider Modena, the color of Apple Pucker
|
| And the game from the veterans, righteous bars
|
| I’m in it for longevity, stripes and stars
|
| And the world might change if ever I quit blessin it
|
| Just use my illest verse to throw in the New Testament
|
| I got a need for speed like Jeff Gordon
|
| Shot hoops in size 10, it’s just Jordan
|
| Plus, I should be a warden the way I lock cells
|
| Might, catch me hoppin outta the truck, blowin the L
|
| We yellin.
|
| — repeat to fade |