| Peronas the crib sicker than Madonna’s
|
| gettin more press then Elien Gonzalez
|
| Some niggas tell me I’m the hottest
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| I never cool off
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| Criticize the shit I write but it’s never too soft
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| Snatch channels like I’m Disney
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| half grizzlie unexplain
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| when niggas see me they duck
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| hoppin i pass quickley
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| Someone to laugh wit me get acquainted
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| they know exactly when a niggas famous
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| or livin dangerous
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| The kid got a glow like i just came home
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| try to dull me niggas that owe be hiding from me Changin their names
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| screenin their calls
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| the dreamcast in the crib
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| never leavin at all
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| Playin NBA 2K for two days straight
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| fifty dollas a game
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| ket me polish my gain
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| Withdrawin at the bank
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| never deposit a thing
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| yo I gotta make a dolla wit slang
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| Back in the day we was slave
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| whips and chains
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| its tradition
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| all i got whips and chains
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| All i did
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| flip some cane
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| now a nigga sick of the range
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| only a new six could fix the pain
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| Look at all these goose bumps round my wrist and veins
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| Milton Bradley wanna get my game
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| 5−0 wanna frisk my frame
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| I dont deal wit cheap blow
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| when i shoot no block
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| sort of like a free throw
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| Cant miss
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| and one of you bitches burn me and i cant piss
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| got me itchin like its dandrif
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| you gone see the back of cam hand quick you dam bitch
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| im a stomp you stab you
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| look at you you dam bitch
|
| Ya love I would dumb back out
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| everybody like «killa
|
| when u come back out,"Listen
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| I like rap
|
| routine had to stop
|
| met a new connect got it 18 a whop
|
| Cops on payroll every block got blow
|
| we fight every night
|
| reunite then pop Mo Thats how it is when you deal wit me and I dont feel tv only real tv Real money real gats real cats real girls
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| MTV I’ll show you the real world
|
| Cats run up on you
|
| splater your white eyes
|
| thats only to make saturday night live
|
| Lookin for a casket got the right size
|
| wanna bake a cake i got the right pies
|
| Crashed up the four
|
| but now the right five
|
| lookin for beef you found the right guys
|
| Old folk say «cam stop ur route
|
| why you gotta get the guns
|
| just box it out»
|
| Listen that there is trife
|
| only fightin is the doctor
|
| and thats for your life
|
| As for your wife
|
| took her out just to tour town
|
| bench press for what
|
| I lift four pounds
|
| Tear up your car
|
| all four doors down
|
| cats wanna box
|
| well heres four more rounds
|
| Yo,
|
| Keep talkin bout convertibles and your ice
|
| I’ma smack you yap you and murder you
|
| Keep talkin bout your dawgs is this
|
| and you leavin out the part that your dawgs is bitch
|
| Lets get straight to the point
|
| aint a nigga better than me im agrivated and im fed to the T If I gotta do joints
|
| and im sittin for five
|
| when you remeniss about me say the nigga was live
|
| I got twelve arm robberies pendin
|
| a dope charge, a gun charge
|
| hard to see holiday bendin
|
| Wit a brand new case
|
| twenty niggas, the ride
|
| a spot OT
|
| and some brand new base
|
| Why say names
|
| you could get who ever you know
|
| I got the gun cocked
|
| ready to blow
|
| Dont compare his rhymes to mines
|
| mines is real
|
| and his is just words and lines
|
| Now I’ma give it to you straight cause I don’t cop no pleas
|
| Sheek Lush, a nigga who got lots of cheese
|
| Wit enough coke to stand on and slide like ski’s
|
| and you could see your whole body on my H-R vreethe
|
| How you wanna do this shit
|
| like the quick and the dead
|
| so i could cock back
|
| empty out the back of your head
|
| Do a drive-by go head
|
| Im quick wit the heater
|
| I shoot threw you
|
| your car
|
| and threw the parkin meter
|
| Look it ain’t much to talk about, fuck you
|
| Fuck where you from, you better wear your gun
|
| Won’t shoot nothin, but you will appear in court
|
| I put your brains everywhere so you could share your thoughts
|
| Few hot shells outta the chrome will leave you there
|
| wit a funny smell like gun powder colon
|
| Listen everythings about the kiss
|
| the new dope out
|
| sky blue CL 6
|
| wit the new poke outs
|
| Tired of the speculation faggit
|
| everything is real here
|
| ya aint gonna get wreck on jason
|
| Hold down the fort
|
| could never be baught
|
| so I dont flip when the crackers wave checks in my facin
|
| Rather start gunnin
|
| cause soon as you start chasin the money
|
| thats when the money start runnin
|
| I drive by in a car service
|
| hope out wit mad nigga
|
| pull my phone out
|
| like ya nervous
|
| Like ya dont know the kid stay hittin benches
|
| wit kay’s of the cane
|
| leave strays sittin inches
|
| away from your brain
|
| In them grey kitted benzes
|
| I sway threw the lanes
|
| now the nay’s just sit and flinches
|
| when they see the chain
|
| Ya might not never come out
|
| my verses get heard
|
| I’m a hustler
|
| I dont sleep from the first to the third
|
| Take the ??? |
| to Cali
|
| but the shots go quickly
|
| put red spots on your neck
|
| and they not no hickeys
|
| The truck still got those micky’s
|
| and dont even pass it my way
|
| if its not no sticky
|
| No matter where Im at
|
| I pop regaurdless
|
| cause I get knocked I cut a check
|
| ya gone drop the charges
|
| Put three holes in head
|
| make em look like bowlin balls
|
| Come threw in spring
|
| wit nikes that dont get sold till fall
|
| So I could hardly care
|
| cause the only way I see time behind bars
|
| if its a cartier |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Fantastic Four Pt. 2 , by - DJ Clue. Song from the album The Professional 2, in the genre R&B