Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song You Heard Of Us, artist - Dj Kay Slay. Date of issue: 08.02.2010
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
You Heard Of Us |
| Yeah! |
| Streetsweepers! |
| Aiyyo Kay Slay I’ve been wantin to say this right! |
| This is the remix! |
| Yeah! |
| Yeah I know you heard of us, the murderous, most shady |
| D-Block, Ray J you better watch your lady |
| We pop bottles in the club on the daily |
| And I buss a nigga head if he ever try to play me |
| OWWWWWW! |
| Lower the semi the engine is Henny |
| Playin Big Pun on my way from visitin Remy (Hold ya head ma!) |
| Yeah I need juice, sour diesel and dark shades |
| Liquor in my cup, doin 90 on the Palisades |
| Hammer on my waist, act stupid then it’s right in your face (Whattup!) |
| Sheek crazier than Max B losin his case (It's wavy baby!) |
| One DJ, two turntables, no replay |
| Women love your boy (Hello!) Sheek Cool J |
| Rookie on the block a veteran with a Glock |
| I ain’t Big or Pac Bully got his own lane |
| Yeah I’m with The LOX but Bully got his own brain |
| Two dancers with me like the homey Daddy Kane |
| I like D.O.A. |
| but holla at me T-Pain |
| Yeah I’m big but my shooters the size of Lil' Wayne (Mini!) |
| Keep the fame, I take another zero on it |
| It ain’t unless the Ghost, Pinero’s on it |
| Dolla bills and good chron', hood don |
| Keys when the LOX there, fuck nigga pop (Pop off!) |
| Knockin Biggie in the new whip, roofless |
| Ain’t Cool J, but the play God witta pool stick |
| «In Too Deep», way too street |
| Talkin peace, save that shit for the Hindu’s beef |
| (C'mon, B!) My gun long, from the bed to where the window reach |
| (Leave that alone…) Talk to shit to D-Block |
| Nigga and end yo' speech, bitch! |
| EH-HEEEEEH! |
| Yeah, yo… |
| They all hatin, even the ones gettin money |
| They all Satan and go both ways, they all datin (haha) |
| Shorty with the doobie in the car waitin (Hold on…) |
| You know the God, I’m M6 and the R8'n |
| 'F' the world, in other words, screw the nation |
| My word play is excruciatin (pain) |
| These niggas is just hallucinatin, and keep tweekin |
| But I’m the trustee, so it’s job |
| The Street Sweeper, what! |
| I kill a snake in the grass I’m the mongoose |
| One phone call boy let the goons loose (BOOM!) |
| Then Kay got a hundred round verse |
| I need a hundred on the show I need 50 on a verse |
| Yeah! |
| I got the riches |
| But a nigga need God in his life for them spiritual wishes |
| FUCK BITCHES! |
| Look at what they did to McNair |
| These rappers lookin like a bunch of ants in a Leer |
| Everybody wanna be on |
| Every hooper in the hood wanna be the boy that dunked on LeBron |
| Like Jordan, Xavier, you can have that girl I ain’t savin her |
| I’m like Rakin nigga, I Move The Crowd |
| R.I.P. |
| To Michael Jackson moonwalkin in clouds |
| Yeah the Full ten loud so forget that three eighty |
| D-Block and G-Unit we the most shady! |
| II Trill is in the building! |
| Hide ya broad |
| And tuck ya chain, you lyin to lame, we goin hard! |
| (Goin hard!) We rollin deep and we known to put the pressure down |
| (Down!) You not built for this business, don’t make me test you clown |
| (Clown!) Pound for pound, I’m the best thang spittin |
| Stay throwed, stay hittin in the fresh outfit and |
| It’s hard to do it like me (me) |
| When my Jordans' don’t come out 'til Christmas |
| And my Nike’s is iD (D!) |
| Me a hater? |
| Why be one? |
| Please! |
| I tell you what, playa, slap a hater when you see one |
| (One!) The streets we run, I don’t mean joggin |
| Talkin 'bout break bread or get it in the noggin |
| We in the house like a recluse |
| And while you drinkin Gatorade, we sippin Trill O.G. |
| Juice |
| Get it poppin from the get-go, slow it down |
| Like you out of petro 'fore them shooters let go |
| How you 'gon see me on a E-Dubb track? |
| Your album was a brick call it re-up rap |
| You don’t got no street knowledge you don’t build |
| Leg shooter claimin you so real |
| How you gonna shoot a nigga in his calf muscle you don’t kill |
| Your bullets go to the Cavs like Shaquille O’Neal |
| Gotta find ways that we all could eat |
| So we move that white girl like Dawson’s Creek |
| Rappers is unstable so they thoughts is weak |
| I’m stable like the places where the horses sleep |
| Yeah they got grams but they grams just ain’t right |
| My grams is like a hammerhead shark, great white |
| When I’m bangin at you homey I ain’t the leg type |
| I’ll head tap 'em like a bitch do when the braids tight |
| Think you hot cause they log on to your fake site?! |
| I wanna see if they can log on to your grave site |
| Uh, Prada good in 80s', new Mercedes, few ladies |
| New York City’s baby, got the projects goin crazy |
| Pay me everything up front, we got the pumper money happy |
| Look at me, my earrings POP like Pappy |
| Get at me! |
| I’m chromey, make it shake all by my lonely |
| I done bust so many bottles, now the wattress want boney |
| Trick on me, her miss cologne me, her favorite homey |
| I’m stoney, she’ll David Blow-me as I get cozy |
| Play the corner like posey, frozey, with a u-zi |
| Hennessy and Rosie, can’t a single woman hold me |
| Guns don’t stop bullets, so err’body packin |
| One boy, you ain’t strapped, you done, won’t be long 'fore the casket come |
| There’s ya mourning God, hood hero, fallen star |
| Local broad, fallin car, Chronic out the jar |
| To my table of the bar, model stay but I’m star |
| Livin God, bar for bar, haters stop me, naw! |
| Yeah I know you heard of us, the murderous, most shady |
| D-Block, Ray J you better watch your lady |
| We pop bottles in the club on the daily |
| And I buss a nigga head if he ever try to play me |