| Love me. |
| give me love.
|
| Give me love food.
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| Give me love, so that I can. |
| kill.
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| Give me love, because I can. |
| kill.
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| He’s not real. |
| (the devil) and she must die.
|
| Die. |
| (he is the son of man, he is the son of God)
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| Three strike you’re out they’re makin niggas behave
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| No more slaps on the wrist gettin 90 days
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| Welcome to the next level, it’s the new world order
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| Snatch ya like a tractor, might kill ya for a quarter
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| I put that on my moms, that’s on everything I love
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| Nigga what? |
| Catch a L, make you cry like a dove
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| So sucka free is the only way for me
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| You don’t get paid just for bein O. G
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| We’ve been had, we’ve been tricked, we’ve been played
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| Right when we, went left, for what? |
| We shoulda stayed
|
| Stressed all the homies just to show they mean business
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| Rushed 'em with the quickness, killed 'em with the sickness
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| Tried to save his life, give him CPR, huh
|
| Somethin for the lungs, fat African drums
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| So clear up your sinus and keep your nose clean
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| Khakis so hot it makes the one-time stop
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| Three strikes, you’re out, then a nigga pays
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| We in the cage, black man is bein slayed
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| Three strikes, you’re out, then a nigga pays
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| We in the cage, black man is bein slayed
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| Get with the lyrical miracle whippin up
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| Gingerbread cookies out you rookies, huh
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| I can’t stands no more, grab the floor
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| Hit the deck when I let loose the tec (c'mon)
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| 'Nique, freak any beat nigga
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| Westside 106 (?) Street, uhh
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| The loco’s, chocolate like cocoa
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| Get your punk-ass balled up in the trash (AHH!)
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| You stepped on my stars, motherfucker say sorry
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| This wild style’s like lion country safari
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| This is for my loc’s back at the Ponderosa
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| Check my file, bring it to trial
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| Get with that new, ninety-fo' shit
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| Yes it’s funky like a jackass, don’t even trip
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| I got pages and pages of metaphoric phrases
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| Too complex for the human eye to catch
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| It’s the, gangsta boogie, do you want a example
|
| Or do you just wanna taste a sample?
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| Out of control, gone, warped, zoned, toned
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| Hand me the heater, I need the speakers
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| Sparks, flames, no name but peep game
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| Smoke like a choo-choo train
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| It’s the criminal minded nigga King Tee
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| With the Westside Riders, comin creepin crawlin like spiders
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| We’ve been bit by the dog, call the catcher stretcher
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| Judge Fletcher betcha, raise your blood pressure
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| The unsolved mystery, mixed up our history
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| Put us in the twist, we no longer exist, like
|
| . |
| dinosaurs dissapeared, then it’s like
|
| . |
| mine and yours dissapear, so it’s like
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| Servin soon, here comes your doom
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| Right when the world go ka-boom, so am I
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| Sane, or, sick in the brain?
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| Or do everybody style sound the same? |
| (Yep)
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| Yeahh… beat terrorist. |
| (?)
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| TR, the funk ignitor
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| My nigga King Tee with the funky West shit right?
|
| Check this out.
|
| Beat terrorist, beat terrorist, beat terrorist, beat terrorist, (?) |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song 3 Strikes Ya' Out, artist - King Tee. Album song IV Life, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп