Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Rider, artist - DavincheDate of issue: 06.06.2009
Song language: English
Rider |
| Click clack on 'em |
| Push a wig back on 'em |
| Anybody that’s ever let off a.45 |
| Knows about the kick back on 'em (Buck I!) |
| I was in a gun range… (When?) |
| On Sunday |
| Everyone says |
| Nobody ain’t ever this accurate! |
| Marksman! |
| Don’t believe me? |
| Go and ask them |
| Hey, you cheeky little bastard |
| You better really mind who you’re bargin' |
| Yo blud |
| Oh you think you’re… hold up |
| Wait there |
| I zoom in like a bloodclart close up |
| Man better know when I come around I got a shank on me or I got something else |
| I’m like «say that again? |
| That’s not what you said, you said something else» |
| You ain’t nothing that, I ain’t ever come across |
| Lick him with the buckle of the belt! |
| Why should I be shook? |
| He ain’t done fuckin' with himself |
| I have, that’s why I don’t rate my man |
| Has he really got something in his side bag? |
| He just posing, side man |
| Just walked to my nigga Kyze |
| Said he don’t know this yout |
| Me neither |
| Looks like he forgotten who I am |
| Here’s what comes with the reminder |
| R6, two ryders, bomb blasting |
| You, target, head-top, casket |
| Okay, bastards, questions, no answers |
| Floor him, carpet, haunting, darkness |
| R6, two ryders, bomb blasting |
| You, target, head-top, casket |
| Okay, bastards, questions, no answers |
| Floor him, carpet, haunting, darkness |
| Just got the words from Ghetts |
| Said there’s a couple nerds on the set |
| I said let me turn on the TEC |
| Cause I’m from the era where you learn to respect |
| Nah I ain’t talkin' 'bout your olders |
| I’m talkin' 'bout the real deep rollers |
| I’m talkin' 'bout the shotgun loaders |
| Ryder’s a riddim held the ends on its shoulders |
| Cause while you was nice on the fence |
| I was right in the trench with a 9 or a 10 |
| All this, at my own expense |
| Thinkin' that this don’t make sense |
| Look at all the dough in the ends |
| All these ballers around and they don’t buy skengs |
| Like dem man |
| And they don’t pay rent |
| That’s why I walk around with a face of intent |
| That’s why I had to flip out on 'em |
| Jump out the whip and pull the stick out on 'em |
| No talking, no lip out on them |
| I eat man’s melon, then spit the pip out on 'em |
| Till they say I ain’t normal again |
| Cause a couple O. G's couldn’t war me again |
| Look, my little old school friend |
| Suck your dad, I ain’t touring again |
| See if you call me that, I might fly one at you |
| You know it’s not love if I ain’t smiling at you |
| Stop friending man’s friends and trying (that move) |
| Don’t fault me for him I ain’t tryin' that yout |
| Fuck that yout I’ve had enough of him |
| Back out the ting, bullets smother him |
| A whole piece crew come and cover him |
| .38 spinning, lookin' like it’s buffering |
| R6, two ryders, bomb blasting |
| You, target, head-top, casket |
| Okay, bastards, questions, no answers |
| Floor him, carpet, haunting, darkness |
| R6, two ryders, bomb blasting |
| You, target, head-top, casket |
| Okay, bastards, questions, no answers |
| Floor him, carpet, haunting, darkness |