| Uh! |
| Circle the crib cause they follow ya'
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| Jealousy’s startin' to show like the ribs in Somalia
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| Cover ya tracks or the pigs will swallow ya'
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| And make it easier being a part of ya
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| I’m a survivor! |
| Even with the .9!
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| The baseball bat, switchblade or screwdriver
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| The Llam' got a kick like Rowdy Rowdy Piper
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| I put ya brain all over ya windshield wiper
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| Nigga' go practice, the flow is ferocious
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| Million dollar face and it’s all over posters!
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| We living great so we hit the shows and roasters
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| Them nigga’s hate so we hit the show with toasters
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| Project bitches! |
| Those is holsters
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| We ain’t off point cause hoes approach us
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| Slip up and I’m a steamroll you roaches
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| I roll with the vultures they eager to pop ya
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| I give you a reason to believe in ya doctor!
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| Fuck a Bentley! |
| I got a key to the chopper
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| With zoom in vision. |
| It’s easy to spot ya!
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| And yeah, I went Platinum off my first L. P!
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| But it’s all off one record so I’m gon' do three
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| There’s only so long I’m gon' take the hate
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| Before I DDT ya ass like Jake the Snake
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| Nigga' rather see a thug dead, cause I love bread!
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| The Uzi’ll have you flyin' like Spud Webb
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| I’m something like the rap-ravishing Rick
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| I’m that slick! |
| That’s why all these nigga’s on my dick!
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| (?) reach and respond to them
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| But I’m like nope! |
| You just mad because you broke
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| You won’t be satisfied 'til I get you in the yoke
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| And I keep squeezing, 'til you slipping in a stroke
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| Then I’m Dipping in a boat and every bar I wrote
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| Sent chills through ya veins like I’m dipping in the coke
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| I ride the track harder than Pippen when you broke
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| I lean on the beat like a fiend on dope
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| The boy been hot before Hammer went broke
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| Tyson was bittin' and Rakim had the rope
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| I’m chilling while you act hard
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| Sipping on lemonade that the maid made from the tree in the backyard!
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| I got my own sneaker, dick! |
| I don’t wear those!
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| The entrepren-nigga' won’t put on their clothes
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| The industry’s filled with a bunch of fuckin' weirdo’s
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| Actin like they don’t want diamonds in their earlobe
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| So what hood you grew up in?
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| Cause comin' where I’m from, motherfuckas want something!
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| My eyes all poky and red, cause me and Buck like Smoky and Craig
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| You learn something if you open up ya head
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| I don’t party unless they pay me
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| You want me to perform that’s an extra 80
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| You almost on your last meal
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| So I got three words for you, Straight Outta Ca$hville! |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Work out, Pt.4 , by - Lloyd Banks. Song from the album Mo' Money in the Bank, Pt. 4, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп