| What the fuck
|
| This shit banging
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| Hey my nigga Mel-Man told me
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| If you throw a rock at a pack of bitch-ass niggas
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| The only one who’s gon' scream out is the one who got hit
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| So you know what, fuck all you niggas
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| You, you and you
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| You know
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| Well it’s the D-R, D-R-E Hitt Mizzy
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| Keep it hot as hell up in LA city
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| Fuck a gang, only (set?) I fear
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| Rolling fifties, cause they can get me
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| For this heat I’m holding with me
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| My golden four fever`s a hole in your head leave a
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| Put that ass to sleep ain’t talking bout the bed either
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| The home of the red and blue, you need to come clean like Lever —
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| 2000, chronic album, still smoking
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| For real locin'
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| Much ain’t gotta be said to get your shit broken
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| Heart or jaw, I’m hard I’m raw
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| Nothing to prove to y’all
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| Just dippin` down Compton Boulevard
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| If you didn’t help me go platinum or suck my dick, you’re useless
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| 8 ball to the gall for y’all who thought that Gatorade was baller juices
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| Saw the Aftermath recruits, rivals labels wanna call truces
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| Try to stall us, send their harlots to seduce us
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| We composed of brawlers, ballers, emcees, producers
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| No losers allowed, don’t be confusing the style
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| Chronic 2000, here and now
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| Blaaow!
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| We Rush
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| Nothing left in the aftermath but dust
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| And niggas like us
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| Stay plush
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| Strapped with automatics that bust
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| On the West Coast where snitches and haters
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| Get crushed
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| Man Dre
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| (What's up my nigga?)
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| There’s too much shit in the game
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| They put an S in front of Hitt, trying to shit on my name
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| Now whoever mouth it came out of, no love
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| In your direction a barrage of slugs at your mug
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| So get bulletproof, won’t serve you as far as protection goes
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| It’s like bare-backin` HIV-positive hoes
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| Hm, you know you’re gonna die
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| And I assume you wanna do so the way you came at H-I
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| Doube-T man, see man this form of trouble could place you in R.I.P.-land
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| Amongst the freelance, harp players
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| The martyrs and the everyday prayer-sayers
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| Try to run shoot at your Jordans, make`em lose air, air
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| Your game is over player
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| I’m came to make sure your jersey’s retired
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| I’mma throw your going-away party
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| With a church and a choir
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| A hearse and a driver
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| I’m the gun that Dre hired nigga
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| Blaaow!
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| (Nigga blaaow!) |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Blaaow! , by - Hittman. Song from the album Hittmanic Verses Deluxe, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп