Lyrics Talkin' Loud - K Rino, Z-Ro

Talkin' Loud

I ain’t no gangster, but on the mic I make boys bail
They run up in my set tripping, I check 'em like voicemail
Records dropping no promotion, but they manage to sell
My folks want 'em worse, than boys want naked pictures in jail
I leave you swoll up in a corner, with a ice bag on ya
You so brand new, you still got the price tag on ya
You wanna be me, the flow murdering three deep sprayer
It’ll never work, like putting a 8 track in a c.d.
player
I don’t bar these Hollywood cats, it’s all about me
You can’t see me, like a blocked number on a caller I. D
You got a entourage, trust me you could still get smacked
On songs bragging bout pistols, that your homeboys pack
I’m frustrated and I’m broke, but I’m keeping the faith
I wrote my own name on a list, of the people I hate
And I don’t rehabilitate devils, I kill 'em and skate
I ain’t gon waste my time, trying to make a snake fall straight
You must not know, who I am mayn
(I can see it, when I look in your eyes)
Talking loud, but you ain’t saying a damn thang
(up in the neighborhood, telling them lies)
When I’m through, you gon remember my damn name
(when I heard the shit, I wasn’t surprised)
In my hood, we get it popping like champagne
(You fools, bout to make my temperature rise yeah)
So many niggas wolf about they boxing game, but then get knocked out
And be the first one back to the car, before the gunman could squeeze some
shots out
Why they always mean mugging, looking like they gon bring some drama
Hoping the shit hit the fan they run to mama, and the tears smear they eye liner
With they cute ass, but not me I’m quick to knock niggas out and shoot fast
Garunteed to knock out socks when I handle the rock, and give a nigga hoop flash
And if you ain’t one deep, fuck around and put hands on your whole group ass
Then see how many weak rhymes, your ass can get bruised up and toothless
I’ll do this to a nigga, I’ll do this to a bitch
Long as it’s done on pen and paper, to help the person that’s saying he get rich
But in real life I caught cases, for stitching boys faces up real right
And I never earned a dollar for it, but they locked Z-Ro up real tight
I don’t pull my pistol out, unless I’mma empty that bitch
If you don’t wanna get hate sent back to ya, nigga don’t send me that shit
And if I say I’m coming to get ya, you might as well go on and pack up
This is permanent punishment, everytime they act up
Rolling through the hood, with my young homie Z-Ro
The K-I-N-G, of the G-H-E double T-O
Showing animosity, at every faker we know
Boys who run they suckers, get shot like a free throw
South Park Coalition, and the Screwed Up Click
Serving bar is like the law, so lace your shoes up bitch
But won’t be no evading arrest, this arrest is for the cardiac
Nigga these grown man guns by X-Box, y’all still fucking with Atari gats
They steady popping in, like prostitute panties you drop again
I know lot’s of men gossiping, so much they need oxygen
What we do to cappers man, the laws can’t even equal
We’ll be on your ass, harder than the child support people
And in case you fellas forgot, it’s H-Town for life
Taking over the rap game, disrespect us we’ll lay down your line
Depending on where you is on the hit list, you can lay down tonight
So make arrangements for this vacation, and enjoy the flight