Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Bouncin' Down The Strezeet , by - Ice T. Release date: 31.12.1995
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Bouncin' Down The Strezeet |
| Straight lace hustlers in the house |
| Yo Wesside, tell them how you do it, baby |
| Drinking up my Alpine |
| 18-inch bolt gauge bumping up jealous niggaz on my mind |
| It’s my cash, my dollars, my paper |
| Just hit the lick, now, suckers wanna pull capers |
| What you think all my gats is for? |
| But ain’t got no Rottweilers by the door |
| Bring your ass on in friend, then, counting my currency |
| Til call you sleep out of the blue twenty |
| Mac 90s, mind on my money |
| Still trying to fuck that bitch in Aqua |
| Out the bally cause I used to love ya |
| My bunny, is acting, funny, but fuck you bitch |
| Bouncing on these bitches, like eighteen switches |
| Side to side, front, three-wheel motion |
| Sedan De Ville sliding like lotion |
| Out of the Central (WHAT?!) |
| Upping to the hills with my kinfolks |
| Niggaz gonna be bouncing down the Street-zy |
| To this beat-zy, with the heat-zy, another deize-y |
| With your dough money, dose money, money rose on your dome |
| Moving on Chrome, and gold (Ds) |
| Nigga, I can’t loose, just I ooze up and down these tracks |
| Cause the booth has got me feeling like the rat pack |
| In the killing to the ceiling with my height, off lights with no direction |
| From the rep like Comp-town section, a fear from my complexion |
| A fear from my erection, so they put me in corrections |
| It’s life in effect, the fact I’m trapped in my existence |
| But even from my thousand yard distance |
| I’m seeing right through you with that mad dog glance |
| With that gangster’s dance |
| So we can sag them pants, come take a chance |
| Would you like to dance in the infra-red drip like?.. (*Gun Shots*) |
| ?? |
| and 100 Spokes and don’t make me loke |
| It’s Hots-to-the-Dolla baby, ain’t no joke |
| You plus my bank is poke, so I got to make a statement |
| I’m on my third strike, I’m rolling on the bike |
| I’m asking all you niggaz what that Comp-town like? |
| Before I gots to pull a fire for that N.Y. |
| Man, the Ese’s rolling shit, I know what’s up |
| I’m cold, heading back streets and ripping gangster cuts |
| Ohh yes; |
| I floss daily, fuck our represent |
| And straight show, keeps my Ds on a hot cement |
| And. |
| I’ll tell your dealer Cali' ain’t no joke |
| Cause that smog on the West Coast is Indo smoke |
| So don’t slip for a second, and get played like a whore |
| Ohh, don’t make me bust in Pac-sive mode |
| I enroll mad legal making mass appeal |
| And you can ask anybody if my clique pack steel |
| Cause no matter where I flow, brothers pay the cost |
| And that’s why they’re gonna tell you that I can’t be toast |
| Man, you didn’t know my music, didn’t know my skin |
| But you can win, listen to the the Mexicans |
| So don’t talk about me, cause I’ll work you son |
| But the crazy thing about it, I won’t be needing my guns |
| Busters can’t even see the Ice, as I flex this |
| You couldn’t afford the Benz®, so you had to buy the Lexus (r) |
| But how them pillars over fans that I ride on the weekend |
| Lock me up, watch my custom drive, shaft vans square dumps in my trunk |
| Lick it once, watch my front end fly, as I skate on by |
| On them five twenties money, Titanium Scrape Plate |
| Rock the ass like you blocked up, Show Nuff |
| I got the cute trunk, hooked up with four pumps in the middle |
| Hit your corner looking like a damn tricycle |
| Hit the pancake, let the butter late on the drown |
| And get on out the ride and clown |
| With my homies on the corner in South Central, California |
| You couldn’t get more real if you wanna |
| I’m gonna let you know that when I froze, just don’t trip on gauze |
| Front seat for my homies, back seat for the whores |