Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Murderers, artist - Ja Rule. Date of issue: 03.08.2008
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Murderers |
| Uh huh, we did it |
| Motherfucker |
| Somebody gotta do it |
| It gotta get done, why not get it done with the gun? |
| Word to god |
| Yo yo yo |
| Murder’a, inside must be hollow |
| Kill us today or you’ll have to kill us tomorrow |
| Murder’a, inside must be shallow |
| How does it feel to take a life of anotha |
| Murder’a, inside must be hollow |
| Kill us today or you’ll have to kill us tomorrow |
| Murder’a, inside must be shallow |
| How does it feel to take a life… |
| It’s murda and its not a game |
| Y’all gonna feel the flames and a lotta pain |
| Let me explain from day one its murda one with no gun |
| Taking income, makin bitch niggas run |
| The nine-one-one roll up nigga what |
| We got the four pund tucked, the Porsche look plush |
| Niggas get fuckin clapped and killed for flossin |
| That probly why niggas get killed so often |
| Nothin to live for type a nigga I did a bid for |
| Snitch bitch niggas that ain’t built for war |
| Is it because we ain’t got no love for thugs |
| And slugs for drugs, the worlds most murda’rous |
| Black Child, nigga you know how the fuck I do |
| Put two in you, then puff a blunt at your funeral |
| I might touch yo' click and fuck yo' bitch |
| But’choo never heard a nigga spit shit like this |
| When I’m gunnin I’m coming on??? |
| shit rubber grip |
| Four shit on the sawed off, blowin the doors off the Range Rov' shit |
| Fo' sho' this, is somethin' we die for |
| And my murdera’s I lie and fry for |
| Murda man, when the shit hit the fan |
| The plan formulate, for instance, fuck a percentage you need the all the cake |
| Put the four to snakes make 'em lay for raw |
| Fuck the game, 'cuz nigga I don’t play no more |
| Size 'em up, nevermind if you ridin tough |
| Count 'em out 'til his eyes is puff, despising us |
| I got hungry thugs that’ll tie you up |
| And they ain’t got a problem with, snub nose revolver shit |
| We hard to hit, my mom’s a Crip |
| We thristy niggas that’ll rob ya bitch for the love of the chips |
| So when I’m soaking the whip, y’all niggas keep hatin' |
| Gotta stash where the heats placed in, paper I keep chasin |
| Motherfucker, uh uh |
| Yo, yo… |
| Forever young this face kills so many all die, nigga must I? |
| Confess my sins, to the souls of the unknown, why? |
| Would you ever disrespect my niggas |
| We murderous engines that lead to lynchin’s |
| Index, itching, ready to run up and hit 'em |
| Let the teflon spin 'em, they say «look how Ja did 'em» |
| I a murder’a, Inc’ed and blood you know you heard of us |
| Murderers juts because we the shhhhhhh |
| Make a nigga much harder to hit with the ox |
| We can take it back, give me five minutes in the box |
| Or trade hot rocks 'til one of us drops |
| Nothin but shells and you can hear the shot for blocks |
| I’m giving 'em hell, while niggas steady hollerin' «stop» |
| I spit sixteens with aim and continue to pop |
| Motherfuckers, what’choo want with this shit |
| The murderous I-N-C, nigga |