Lyrics Suicide Homicide - Gucci Mane, Waka Flocka Flame

Suicide Homicide

You decide, tuck in yo' pride
I ain’t waitin, I ain’t got no patience
Raised by the Grove, I ain’t got an education
24/7 shorty, fuck a vacation
Wak’s a real nigga, why you goin to the station?
Damn D-Mars why these fuck niggaz hatin?
Can’t replace, why God had to fake 'em?
Free my nigga Moe, 25 he facin
Lafayette, Grove Street, that’s my nation
Hoes on point, never losin concentration
New black 'rarri got a nigga tryin race it
Fresh 'fro, gives a simple wave to the Haitians
Silver rotation got a nigga on point
Haste with the case, when the shit gon' stop?
Run up on me click click click pop
(Pop pop pop pop) Pop, many body drop
I’m the Brick Squad crop, the crowd real Waka Flock'
Man you rag, dude you go hard (what else?)
I am Brick Squad, crowd yell out SQUAD (and)
I’m livin it, hell I’m only scared of God
S-suicide paint (den) suicide rims (kill 'em)
Suicide loud, I got them suicide friends (stankin)
Suicide bitches they’ll kill for a nigga (ugh)
Call it suicide, run up on me fuck nigga (pussy)
Homicide purp (den) homicide vert' (kill 'em)
Homicide yo' ass and put yo' ass on a shirt (stankin)
Homicide ice, homicide life (ugh)
Homicide yo' kids and yo' motherfuckin wife (GUCCI!)
I’ma rich man sparkin, a rich man coughin
Dead man walkin, dead man talkin
I’m the man with the grams, get your bags, get your weight
Call me baker man, cuse I can bake a cake (it's Gucci)
Drop top 'rarri, called the headless horseman
Cooking up babies, call the shit abortions
Roamin through the 6 like a motherfukin orphan
Like Vick I killed your road dawg and put him in a coffin
When it’s on again, grab a tote again, no pad or pen, I gotta win
BSM and 1017, my whole Squad be goin in
Suicide is a homicide, I smoke so much my brain is fried
(Ferrari Boyz) and Ferrari toys, pullin up lookin like the Gotti boys
Doors go up, we just call it suicide
I ain’t playin, I’m just prayin it’s a homicide
It’s 1017 that means it’s time for BSM
Bread to win, that’s on Pop, Joe the Boss, and Bim
Test what?
Test that, test this
Your bet your real lab rat I’ll let her test dick
Running with the (Cannon), I ain’t talkin (Nick)
I put 7 on your chest like M dot Vick
Murder, nigga, murder, nigga
Real short fuse, I hurt a, nigga
Wood Da Kid, Wooh Da, King
I’m married to my strap and I don’t need a ring