Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Troublemakers, artist - Ghostface Killah. Date of issue: 31.12.2009
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Troublemakers |
| For real? |
| Can I get a juice, Lord? |
| Yeah, yeah, yeah, squad niggas, boy, for real |
| Uh, huh, for real, man, word, open the door, man |
| Hustle flow shit, yeah, aiyo, pass the cigar, Lord |
| Come on, man, stop playing, man |
| We in the cabin playing backgammon, gorilla monster slammers |
| Brothers higher us, try us you gon' die, son |
| Green medicine, blow veterans |
| Run in Adidas store, six more valors, drawers feather skin |
| Hair cutted up, hollering, seven through three sixes |
| No, we ain’t the devil, where ya llama, dick? |
| Can’t stand the other side, niggas know we rich, we color guys |
| Loose up your mother, true lullabies |
| Gangsta ever readies, take off my shirt, no batteries, nigga |
| Just one mean magnum killer |
| Snow mobiles jetting out the Timber, feel Chef altitude |
| Yo, I can’t breathe, check the splendor |
| Brazilian honey dip, I’m on my rifle day, nigga |
| Times is roughing, Timberland cuffing |
| One knee up, G up, all the re-up |
| Hope we can pull it back, my throat my only weapon, blow the beat up |
| Stuff pillow pads in the rat holes, reduce that faggot ass nigga |
| Who wanna jump like a frog to a tadpole |
| Gag it up, sliding through the ER, batted up |
| A tube in your dick, you can’t piss when standing up |
| Hands is shaking, doctors is taken to operating |
| Nah, he might not live, so they start debating |
| You in bad shape, in the neck of New York |
| Your slithering ways, lay with you a bad snake |
| Smash bake, eight stab holes in your shoulder blades |
| You wilding on the stretcher and shit, bitch tryna hold your legs |
| Nah don’t hold his legs, tell that bitch ass nigga to chill |
| Put something in his meat like boiling eggs |
| Got gophers that sleep in the woods, car hard down |
| Padlock your bow-legged spot, where your rocks now? |
| You ain’t moving no crack, yous a moving ass rat |
| After you lay up in that morgue, I’mma fuck your back |
| Yeah, nigga, die slow with your smirk on |
| Night, night lights, dim it down, get your mirk on |
| Later I see you in hell, get your bird on |
| Filled with embalming fluid, get your serve on |
| My sherm on in the hood when I ride by |
| My eyes looking like I learned how to sky dive |
| The world is yours, there’s rules you abide by |
| Ride with the fly guy on I-95 |
| They said a nigga return but I never left |
| I told Big L through me, he could resurrect |
| I’m that nigga like Puff in L-O-X |
| I took one L and life is still Double X |
| Brick City where I bleed on the streets at |
| The E’s in M&M's, I need a relapse |
| And bitches, grab my mic, give me feedback |
| Reggie you an asshole, baby, I be that |
| Yeah, I get cocky when the beat pumping |
| You know you doing it when your tire lip running |
| I keep a freak and I call chicken McNugget |
| 'Cause this super bad nigga, she McLovin' |
| Fiends get killed in my hallways, we parle |
| My feet been killing me all day |
| Your boy down for lot, like them killas in raw way |
| It’s all work and no play 'cause this block ain’t nothing like Broadway |
| Revenge is sweeter then sorbet, you all become believers |
| Once this heaters in your face, just a part of my funk swear |
| Y’all don’t want no part of the gun spray |
| I would hate to pull it in one stray |
| That’s where the innocents by stand |
| We trapped inside these tenements like damn |
| Why mama tryna feed us this spiced ham |
| Connects tryna cheat us with light grams |
| Co-defendants try to lighten they sentence, snitching to white man |
| Turned state evidence, fam, we ain’t jellin' |
| Felons ain’t felons no more, they straight tellin' |
| Ain’t nothing worse than a rat, you can’t smellin' |
| And ain’t nothing worse than a track, you can’t sellin' |