Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Biscuits, artist - Trife. Date of issue: 19.04.2004
Song language: English
Biscuits |
| Yo… who the fuck brought me this chocolate shit, man? |
| I said a banana nutrament, man |
| Ya’ll heard what the fuck I said… I gave you the… |
| I wrote it on the fuckin' paper, man! |
| Y’all muthafuckas always fuckin' around and forgettin' something and shit |
| Smart dumb niggas and shit, runnin' around here and shit |
| Y’all niggas need to wisen up, man, yo. |
| Get off that special ed shit though, man… |
| I said Big O, hydro-face, pass me the sazon, it’s on |
| There go son, tap out the hash bone |
| Half moon, he rock, three’s fourth quarter length |
| No jewels, no rocks, it’s not worth the spotlight |
| His gun tool, was a half a hill |
| That’s a six digit slip behind five sticks, eatin' steel, fuck him |
| We gon' -- we gon' get our money |
| If he front, they gon' read about the rocks in his tummy |
| Mouth was red, socks was bloody, fuck all the talkin' |
| Safety off and shit, crept up, «What up money? |
| Freeze!» |
| Don’t move, turn around, act like James Brown |
| And get down! |
| Get slapped with the pi-dound |
| Wasn’t you the same clown? |
| Uptown, yappin' |
| I keep big Shirley on my side, so What’s Happenin'? |
| Try eatin' these shells, they non-fattening |
| After you digest that, I’mma stomp you bastards |
| So take that. |
| blaow, blaow! |
| Ghost, he still breathing |
| Blaow, blaow! |
| Anything after that it don’t matter |
| Your homies and your close relatives |
| Even them nosy ass pigs’ll get splattered |
| It’s the T-H-E-O-D-O-R-E, send me to Iraq I come back with don heat |
| Teeth, less than a week, they be callin' me |
| Chief of Defense, cuz I sure do cook when it’s beef |
| Yo, what up? |
| Meet, these, O.G.'s, po' thieves and |
| Baller' shit, long biscuits |
| Fuck around, take all your shit |
| Call your bluff, y’all faggots don’t want no beef |
| Grind your teeth, and just, roll with it, don’t risk it |
| Fuck around, and be a statistic |
| Yo, yo, niggas ask why I use my Glock |
| Cuz it’s 2003, muthafucka, I refuse to box |
| I’m true to block, strip you for your shoes and socks |
| Remove your watch, yo I’mma have to lose your top |
| I’m from a place where junkheads and zombies dwell |
| And niggas keep they heat blazin' like Bonzi Wells |
| Don’t ever talk to a nigga like I’m one of your kids |
| Cuz I’ll cock back the mac and pop one in your ribs |
| So homeboy, keep runnin' your jibs, I’mma run in your crib |
| Pistol whip you right in front of your wiz |
| My nigga, that’s how it is, I get it, just how I live |
| Cuz me without a gun, is like Queens without the bridge |
| Classic cut, this is how a O.G. |
| live |
| Lamp in village, and still get heard with no spins |
| This is Trife Diesel, New York’s backbone, back home |
| Black blown, it’s Theodore, nigga, fuck your wack stones |
| That’s right, it’s real! |
| It’s that muthafuckin' Theodore Unit |
| Nahwhatimean? |
| Staten Island, live shit, y’all |
| Straight up and down, nothin' but that cutthroat shit |
| Blowin' niggas back home, you know what I mean? |
| I don’t give a fuck… we could take it there |
| Whatever, hits? |
| We got 'em, nigga! |
| Yeah, now I’mma strangle the game! |
| No doubt, it’s real right now, muthafucka |
| Y’all niggas done done it, fuck y’all yeah |
| I’mma get the fuck outta this booth |