| That’s right
|
| I told y’all we was bringin' that Midwestgangstaboxframecadillacmuzik to life
|
| today
|
| Gangster Gibbs
|
| (Sing that as a lullaby)
|
| It’s only the start
|
| I’m rolling solo in my four door, got my speakers on bang
|
| Trunk full of that , finna go make a stain with that cocaine
|
| I’m on my way to cop it, chop it, gotta get paper, bitch
|
| Got your favorite shit and what you lace it with?
|
| They hate the kid
|
| Niggas thought they could phase the kid
|
| Step back and appraise the kid
|
| The neck is lit, this major shit
|
| Niggas ain’t do me no favors, bitch
|
| Don’t ask for none
|
| And niggas that ain’t my peeps shouldn’t even think to speak
|
| I pack them guns, they yap and run
|
| You showed them my buzz?
|
| I’ll sweep your street
|
| We taking and making that dough, nigga
|
| Jacking and breaking them o’s, nigga
|
| Ask any motherfucker on my block
|
| Ms. Watts ain’t raise no hoes nigga
|
| I keep a bitch on her toes, nigga
|
| Freddie the one that she chose, nigga
|
| My dough bigger, my flow sicker than most niggas
|
| I show bitches that I ain’t the one they be playing with
|
| I’m ‘bout my money, my paper, my cheddar, my bread
|
| You hear me jap out on these beats
|
| ‘Cause I’m in the streets, the streets is keeping me fed
|
| These niggas ‘ll leave me for dead, if they get the chance
|
| Come at my head to try to advance, but will I last?
|
| Fuck yea—‘cause I’m ‘a blast, nigga
|
| From the cradle to the grave, the womb to the tomb
|
| I’m ‘a get it, win or lose
|
| I’m just out here making moves
|
| From the womb to the tomb, to the cradle to the grave
|
| ‘Til I check up out this bitch, I’m out this bitch
|
| Getting paid
|
| Ey, I can’t be hospitable
|
| If the shit ain’t profitable
|
| Send him to the hospital slow
|
| Then we gon' let his children know
|
| Can’t go places that Pill ‘ll go
|
| Might post up at the liquor store
|
| Chop it down and distribute blow
|
| Might get fresh and go pimp a hoe
|
| I didn’t know that’s your sister, though
|
| Look, stand under this mistletoe
|
| Give that four-five, a kiss, you bitch
|
| ‘Fore I let this trigger go
|
| Cold-hearted for cash, a damn dummy for ducats
|
| Sold the hardest of glass
|
| My fam hungry, I’m bugging
|
| Trucking, tucking, don’t get stuck in shit
|
| What is this?
|
| The components of a fuck-you-upper, knuckle upper
|
| Gutter nigga, throw the baking soda
|
| Drop her proper
|
| English for the slow guys, Bacon Double Whopper
|
| I need more cheese and more fries
|
| From the rocker to the doctor
|
| Delivery room to the morgue
|
| If you live by the sword
|
| Take this chopper, go get guaped up
|
| Or get killed trying for it
|
| Take this chopper, go get guaped up
|
| Or get killed trying for it
|
| Yo, I done played niggas, made niggas
|
| Come up off that yay, nigga
|
| What you think you brave, nigga?
|
| I’m ‘a get down for my pay, nigga
|
| Spray niggas, lay niggas out flat
|
| «Will he live?»
|
| «I doubt that»
|
| Murder shit, I’m ‘bout that
|
| All the shit surrounding that
|
| Got niggas with cases, tears on faces
|
| Snitches conversating down at the station
|
| I smell bacon, so I’m laying low
|
| Still gotta get that paper, yo
|
| Pimp a bitch, break a hoe
|
| ‘Til I come up on that major dough
|
| I could come up on some major blow
|
| Been in the Bay with that major weed
|
| Played the field, with major pills
|
| The shit that I got give niggas the chills
|
| This is the way that I live for real
|
| Young and trill
|
| I brung the steel against they will
|
| My lungs is filled with Cali kill
|
| I got that yac so crack the seal
|
| I stack them bill to half a mill
|
| Praying I never go broke again
|
| Got money-making methods
|
| And they respect it, whether they folks or (fed?)
|
| Refuse to lose and hope to win
|
| Strictly getting paid
|
| From the womb to the tomb
|
| From the cradle to the grave |