Lyrics Cuddies Say "Yee" (Da US Open) - Mac Dre

Cuddies Say "Yee" (Da US Open)

I’m a Crestland, mad man, Country Club psycho
With assault rifle and hatred for the 5-O
Early death is normal, so we smoke Perry Como
Make the minutes move slo-mo
Wil' out for now, ‘cause when it end, we really don’t know
Youngsters have King Kong on they back before they grow old
And in my turf, the streets so cold
Put this on this choppa that I hold
Fuck with my kinfolks and we’ll be tagging your toe
Man, this a rough life, I tuck gun, tuck knife
I bust back, bust once, bust twice
This 40 thang, will tear off your bumper
It’s my only gang, I call my thumper
Nigga, I’ll jump ya, all by myself
With no help, if you die, oh well
No love felt, people, I’m a menace
It’s Macassi on the mic, we playin' tennis
Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»
Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene
Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-15's
Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»
Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene
Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-1-Feens
I’m in the club VIP, with me thing
Feelin' the DJ rhythm wide swing
I’m searching, looking for a guinea pig
Splat any wig, strapped with the mini Sig
On Remy big, high-tech cyber
Dre MacGyver, getaway driver
Always tighter than the po-po or the feds
I’m ridin' somethin' hi-po with ported heads
Your boy with dreads and take the guys on one
Frozen goods?
Boy, I’m gon' run
Dumb outlaw, on a crooked path
Tryna look at cash, look at wood on the dash
Look at screens, listen to the satellites
Big appetite, nigga ain’t actin' right
I’m ill, so real you smell it
MacEnroe, tell ‘em how to spell it
Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»
Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene
Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-15's
Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»
Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene
Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-1-Feens
Now, nigga, bounce, break out
Run a route, scatter when you see my scowl
Followed by the fully K imported from Moscow
Since a creeper crawled, we did fugazis foul
Hardest nigga test the line, he gots to blast me now
Three C beast, North Pole of V-Town
And all my niggas make these bitches run like greyhounds
We have no funk, guerilla warfare style
Move on you without a sound and all of a sudden, crack your crown
Doctors say smoke and poison make you senile
Especially in them Backwoods, but fuck it, blaze the pound
And did I mention, we do the Rodney King, Reginald Denny
Turn your little function to a stomp convention