| The hit man | 
| His power is so great | 
| That’s for real | 
| Ain’t about a whole lotta talk | 
| It’s about action, can you dig it? | 
| He got the eye and the heart to do it, yeah | 
| From the roof with a scope, there’s a whole art to it | 
| Ain’t no emotion when he pulls the trigger | 
| Brief second of silence, then you see what he do to niggas | 
| Pistols, rifles, grenades, whatever | 
| He’s a killin' machine, bought and paid for and clever | 
| And way iller than the last nigga | 
| Smoke a nigga in the club then dance right past niggas | 
| Once in a while, there’ll be one who’ll stand out | 
| Who’s more than psycho, who’ll take any man out | 
| With a certain passion for sendin' bullets blastin' | 
| A certain fashion to the way this nigga wax 'em | 
| And this assassin gets mad satisfaction | 
| From puttin' all this worthless scum out of action | 
| A sense of pride in his skill | 
| Looks in the mirror and salutes before he rides for the kill | 
| You got the bag, pop? | 
| I got the thing-thing | 
| It’s in the sling, here it is, let me let it ring | 
| With the doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo | 
| Or do it lawn mower style, rrt | 
| You got the bag, pop? | 
| I got the thing-thing | 
| It’s in the sling, here it is, let me let it ring | 
| I got potatoes and the mufflers in the whole thing | 
| With the fwt, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa | 
| Buckin' at niggas wigs while he’s puffin' on cigs | 
| Lay him down, then he bounce out of town to another gig | 
| It ain’t nothin', he don’t need many friends | 
| Funded different type of weapons, he got plenty of them | 
| If you pass him on the street or see him in his spot | 
| He’s always calm, cool, collected, very rarely is he not | 
| Hit man, with ice in his veins | 
| Does the job so precise they up the price with his name | 
| Shadowy figure, never too loose with the lip | 
| Forty-four long in his coat, deuce-deuce on his hip | 
| Baby nine in his boots and his trunk is full | 
| This nigga’s on some shit and can’t be fucked with, fool | 
| In the grimy world of highly-paid hustlers | 
| First they get goons to muscle ya, then get him to touch ya | 
| You wouldn’t wanna get in his way, nor his associates | 
| Or a tombstone bearin' your name will be appropriate | 
| You got the bag, pop? | 
| I got the thing-thing | 
| It’s in the sling, here it is, let me let it ring | 
| With the doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo | 
| Or do it lawn mower style, rrt | 
| You got the bag, pop? | 
| I got the thing-thing | 
| It’s in the sling, here it is, let me let it ring | 
| I got potatoes and the mufflers in the whole thing | 
| With the fwt, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa, doo-pa |