| I’m a hutch-peeler with much scrilla and I love to get high, homie
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| Shady character like Don King, so you better keep your eye on me
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| I done bust niggaz in the grill and had 'em wearin partials
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| Jacked high rollers and ran from the US marshalls
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| It’s called survival and only the strong can survive
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| And went the distance with the feds while some of my partners took a dive
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| Strive to stay alive, can’t let no nigga smudder me Got to stay f-r-double e and keep these bitches lovin me Sippin bubbly, breakin down buds from a fat sack
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| Reservations at (?) arts craft shack
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| I stacks fat cause a mackaroni gots to have cheese
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| (?) pillows and cigarillos and backwood leaves
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| And I drinks Hen by the gallon, so sometimes I might trip
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| Infrared beam with black talons and that extended clip
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| Quick to do some sprayin, so nigga, watch what you sayin
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| You’ll get your show cancelled like Keenan and Ivory Wayans
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| I’m just a pimp, mane, tryin to stack some Francs
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| So I can have French maids pedicure my bunions
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| Oh, you ain’t knowin, what is you, new?
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| Yo hutch must be feedin you fish head stew
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| Mac Dre shake broke hoes with bolos and kids
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| Tell a bitch she can take a long walk off a short bridge
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| And hope she land in shark-infested waters
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| Heartless, takin over turfs like Nino did to Corace
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| Kidnapped by the feds and treated like a sucker
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| But now I’m free they see payback’s a motherfucker
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| I’m sickenin, like dickin all they daughters and nieces
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| Now CO’s and PO’s want me restin in pieces
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| Gettin peace is so hard that it’ll make your nose bleed
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| And I been smokin since niggaz was on gold weed
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| Born to be a player, rhyme sayer and clock grits
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| Strapped with two 23 speedin chop sticks
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| Quick to kick a bitch to the curb
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| And get back with her on a 33rd
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| I never worry, never worry, it’s all copastetic
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| Got mo’game than needed insulin in a diabetic
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| I be fitted, dipped in butter, hair cut like Kobe
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| Blindin 'em with science like Thomas Dolby
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| Pullin on black MI, sippin top-shelf Cuevo
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| Playin with my hutch hair while she lickin on my navel
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| Stable full of money-makin stallions
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| Been in the feds with dreads from Jamaica and Italians
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| Shrimp scampi eater Peter Long
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| Puffin purple cush at the building with my cousons
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| Strapped, armed, ready, ain’t nobody goosin me Got (?) where the airbags used to be Boy, you should see how I act off the privilege
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| Hennessy is like Popeye’s spinach
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| I’m ready to take heads off, gunplay or fight
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| I dot eyes and have 'em wearin they sunglasses at night
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| Fool, that’s real, that ain’t no frontin
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| Them punk-ass niggaz don’t wanna see Dre about nothin |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Fish Head Stew , by - Mac Dre. Song from the album Tha Best Of Mac Dre Volume 1, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп