| Why niggas wanna clock me?
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| Like that dance called the Tati
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| Don’t they know I break motherfuckers into parts like Rocky
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| Part I, part II, part III, niggas can’t fuck with me
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| My style’s knock-kneed plum crazy (what?)
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| Who’s that wild ass motherfucker catchin' wreck
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| Stickin' Jamaicans for sound sets outside discotheques
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| It’s Klep the death specialist, Stallone and Stone shit
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| Stayin' high representin' for the nine-quint
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| Ras bad guy, burns the house down like Left Eye
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| Why try mimic? |
| MC’s get broke like speed limits (uhh)
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| Niggas can’t fuck with my metaphors
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| Canin' MC’s like they in Singapore; |
| Klep been through more wars
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| Than Gump or Shore, put together catchin' leathers
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| On the regular, got that net, push me round and Dread stressin' a
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| Trick ho, what the Dread won’t know won’t hurt
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| Robbin his workers for they work; |
| now, WHOSE TURF IS THIS?
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| It’s Klep’s, the clothes wreckers'
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| Life interceptor, pussy collector
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| Got your bitch on my dick and I ain’t even stressin' her
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| Check enough sex in her, my styles are regular
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| Junior M.A.F.I.A. |
| clique moves in like the settlers
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Throw gats to Giuliani
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| Flows tighter than pigeon punani, try me, die G
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| Dangerous, since my daddy bust me out
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| The tip of his dick, Biggie Smalls with the wickedest shit
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| Spit clips, niggas split like bananas
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| Flavor like Tropicana; |
| orange, mango, peach
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| I strangle each -- negro for they dough
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| Niggas get to bendin', got two cases, one pendin'
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| 560 V-12 engine, women spinnin'
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| In 929 Mazda’s, Tammy and Natasha
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| The ménage à trois around my way
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| Like Ill and Al Skratch smokin' 50 sacks in the back of Ac’s
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| Windows cracked, so sit back relax
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| Yo Vec, crush the hash, the Beretta’s in the stash
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| What you doin' with yourself? |
| Stone heart’s the way to wealth
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| Indecisive thoughts make sentences get dealt
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| Money makes the world go round, robbin' shit
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| Fuck a job shit, niggas want cribs, bricks and spliffs
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| All-wheel automobiles, traction control
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| For clay roads, rollin' with dough, kickin' game
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| On the cell with bitches on hold, that’s how we roll (uhh)
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| Rhymes now tight as hell so to the bank I stroll (uhh)
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| Money on my mind, open lips from my eyes
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| Reveal pupils shaped like dollar signs --
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| -- the world is mine!
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| Niggas frontin', feelin' twelve gauge pellets
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| B.I.G. |
| is repellent, to all that «He say, she say»
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| We play, Russian roulette, fuck the threat
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| Your whole crew’s vagina, you and your co-signer
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| Nigga, we rollin' in eight and a halfs, TV’s in the dash
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| Three G’s in the stash, see we love the cash
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| More coke to make some more
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
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| Niggas don’t know bout my game, they don’t know
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| How complex it is, baggin' bitches in GS 300 Lexuses
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| And the sex is for summer sports
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| Passports for drug transports to remote resorts
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| Bitches with Donna Karan «Catwoman» suits, matchin' figure boots
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| Haircut cute, on tops and garters like prostitutes
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| My lyrics explicit
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| Got bitches bringin' they own condoms on the first visit
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| If Biggie bring big bowls of beef
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| Backin' bitch niggas down, burners bring bundles of belief
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| Common thief, slash drug chief, syndicated
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| Went from 10 K, to 24 K and motherfuckers hate it
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| J.M. sedated, quarantined (uhh)
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| B.I.G. |
| for President, buckin' shots past the spleen
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| 9 millimeter dream, MAC-11 nightmares
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| Electric chairs, which MC’s do you fear?
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| Big Poppa, Junior M.A.F.I.A., nuff said
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| Niggas disrespect just are dead… |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Oh My Lord , by - Junior M.A.F.I.A.. Song from the album Conspiracy, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп