Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song 4-5-6, artist - Foxy Brown. Album song Chyna Doll, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 31.12.1998
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Violator
Song language: English
4-5-6 |
| Ugh, ughh, yeah |
| This is Beanie Sigel |
| That Philly cat who ain’t with that silly rap |
| Put your weight up, not your hate up, niggas |
| Y’all know how I play quiet towns and tie 'em down |
| Haters wonderin' how I got a position with Roc |
| Cuz I listen to The LOX and I listen then watch |
| While you still sittin' in spots, ditchin' the cops |
| I’m in the Porsche Box with Fox, glistenin' watch |
| War steel gray, Lexus, GS-4 |
| Desert Eagle metal in the door, pedal to the floor |
| I’m routin' down South, for my aim is to score |
| Eight cylinder, screamin' 'Fuck the law!' |
| Got a tank full of gas, trunk full of cash |
| Hammers in the stash, scanners in the dash |
| Radar detectors, troopers can’t find us |
| We bubble down ATL and hit the 'Linas |
| Then get clubbed with some Dirty South thugs |
| Go all out thugs, go in your house thugs |
| Talk shit, put blood in your mouth thugs |
| 36 South stuck, stay on route thugs |
| You know how Mac play, quiet town, tie it down |
| I supply it now, by the pound |
| Might front you a Q if you buy a pound |
| If you didn’t try it then, why would you try it now? |
| Think cause Mac rap, I wouldn’t fire a round into your crown |
| I lay you down and retire you clown |
| And I clap niggas, nap niggas in the dirt |
| Pat-pat with the deuce deuce, it’ll work |
| Bitch ass niggas wearin' thongs and skirts |
| Catch 'em early in the mornin' while they goin' to work |
| See you pretty motherfuckers stay stuck in the mirror |
| And you weak ass niggas only bust out of fear |
| I know y’all softer than them feathers that they stuff in a bear |
| I pack two barettas, never bust in the air |
| Twist your shit back, spit til my gat sits back |
| Pack four pieces like a Kit Kat. |
| Heh, get that? |
| Cop Cris' by the six-pack, Range Rov?' |
| Dot six that |
| Benz Coupe, drop six that |
| Buggy eye seven come out? |
| Shit, took the six back |
| Switch the Double R, the Double R’s are, gotta get that |
| You see how we play, pop Cris' on the E-Way |
| Soakin' the seat, gettin' drunk with Bleek |
| Or the Shark Bar, grilled salmon, poppin' Dom P |
| While you chicken when you chasin' your high with hot tea |
| Niggas flashin' back money like it’s they money |
| Slap 500 on back of a three-twenty |
| I’m bringin' it to any nigga tryin' to shoot games (yeah) |
| With them bullshit buggy-eyed kits and CDs |
| Check it out, yo, yo |
| Well, I’m a lil' nigga don’t speak, I tote heat |
| Here to shut down your whole operation on the street |
| Bleek, you know niggas just had to recruit this |
| My flow drool out like a old nigga toothless |
| Who would believe they pump Bleek with Ritalin |
| Too hyped up, but weed calm my adrenaline |
| Broke day on the strip, SK in the crib |
| Hundred crack viles, playin' the bench |
| Nickel nine gleam, like it’s Armor All’d up |
| My squad be armed up, gotcha niggas' arms up |
| Who the fuck want what? |
| Me and Bean’s trumped up |
| Witcha town under siege, Dillinger in the sleeve |
| If my gun jam, you niggas’ll squeeze on me |
| You niggas them cats, that’ll call D’s on me |
| I’m on on my off game, need a stadium for in stores |
| Floss chains and I pimp whores, stay smoked out |
| Shirt be poked out with the snub-nosed eight |
| Six to jump out, you eat what you spit |
| Motherfucker die clean |
| For you actin' tough cats, but in your heart you serene |
| I read your body languo |
| You off balance and don’t wanna mangle |
| You want a challenge, get it brought to from every angle |
| This shit’ll slow 'em down, I bet that |
| Your up front dough and your six, bet that motherfucker |
| Sassy Fox some brick money, cop me a drop |
| You know how I run it, 600, glassy top |
| Rock the light gray wrist shit, flash them rocks |
| The red, the yellow, the green, causin' traffic stops |
| Bitch please, never freeze, gonna blast the Glock |
| Then I show a little cleave' and breeze past the cops |
| You talk slick but suck dick for money in y’all hand |
| I’m like, «Bitch, I got more money than your man» |
| While you get your knees scraped up, cum all on your glands |
| Shit, I’m in the V-Twiz ballin' on you tramps |
| Y’all hoes greasy, so I keep the bitch easy |
| Rookie, fuck you know about Glocks and pock' books? |
| You know Na Na rock that shit, Pra-da that shit |
| Es-ca that shit, Dolce Gabba that shit |
| Hollow points, top that shit, fuck you tryin' to aim |
| Pop that shit, yeah, nigga, Fox got that shit |
| You see the ice wrist shit, can you cop that shit |
| Chenille, crocodile and ostrich shit, whoa! |
| You know my style, I be spendin' they cash |
| And I’ll show their little dick some celebrity ass |
| And get 'em a brick, I know what style to get them niggas shit real |
| Well, fuck, I let 'em live and lick the tip of my shit |
| To remind 'em of some rose petals, candles, and shit |
| Or some hydro like the nigga grew a plant in my shit |
| So that’s what it is, that’s why them hoes mad at my shit |
| See my whilin' in the four-six, stylin' on they bum ass |
| Goddess MC, y’all bitches is little Foxes |
| I see my girls frontin', tossin' they little watches |
| Cris? |
| I pops it. |
| Fuckin' a nigga topless |
| Cats? |
| I fouls on. |
| Hoes? |
| I styles on, nigga |
| Wear y’all out then air y’all out |
| Over here? |
| Hustle from where, clear all out |
| Shit, greyhound bitch, stay down bitch |
| And y’all know Jigga sent me here to lay down shit |
| I will spray y’all niggas, will waste y’all niggas |
| Cause I fucked the nigga and paid y’all niggas |
| Shit, what the fuck |