Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song East West Hustlers, artist - Masters Of IllusionDate of issue: 13.11.2000
Song language: English
East West Hustlers |
| Yo whassup kid? |
| Yo every motherfuckin year I spend $ 70,000 |
| For a fuckin picnic, 4th of July |
| You motherfuckers come and eat up my shit, now that’s right |
| Bitches too, bring your own fuckin brown paper bag |
| Get out my fuckin yard |
| Nah na not this year, I’m not fuckin with motherfuckers |
| I’m stickin niggas up, puttin 'em on the grill |
| Charcoalin motherfuckers |
| That’s right |
| I call up Motion, crank the pipes in the green Cutlass |
| Stankhead roll, super fly spinner on gold Vogues |
| From here to Texas playin Master P, in the Lexus |
| Speakers and rearview, comin to, bangin through you |
| Strippers that wiggle wind up, out them short pants |
| And bitches can dance here’s yo' tip baby suck my dick |
| That’s on the Ampex reels, countin dollar bills |
| Don’t smoke no bit that weed man smell like shit |
| I’m built for action, my hairy chest with gold chains |
| Just smokes a fraction, and saves some for the brain |
| My ostrich headband, playin ball |
| Move upon the floor like I’m Allen, show my crossover now |
| Cadillac the fifth wheel, six hoes in the back |
| Keith packin the steel |
| Nigga how the fuck you comin out with this scallywag? |
| She ain’t ridin in my Lub |
| With that kitchen and that kinky perm, I belly rub her |
| And take that other fat ho with the blubber, I roll like Daytons |
| Very expensive for you ones on budgets, my name is Clifton |
| Capital C-lift off, giraffe jacket |
| Puma jeans, trout shoe, elk hat |
| Yo rub my back 'til my penis bulge out of my slacks |
| Be like a crook and stab you right up in your tuna and hug it |
| I got the bait, five Cadillacs deep in yo' state |
| Be like them Vogue tires, gold trim, I fucked you you’re fired |
| East West hustlers |
| We showin out |
| Bronx to the Bay-ay-ay |
| We showin out |
| You know how it is, I hear a noise and take my shit straight to the shop |
| Nigga FIX MY SHIT and run it by eight o’clock |
| Who she roll with, Clyde that down South Southern-ass raw nigga |
| Yo tell him you with Clifton, and Lady Jones clockin these figures |
| You see we all connected |
| My leopard spot drawers got infected |
| I had a velvet condom, eagle socks, tyrannosaurus rex, turtlenecks |
| Niggas sweatin in a drop-top Vette, but it ain’t mine |
| 44 mag glove compartment and the plastic bag |
| I come real with shit, Bobby who you fuckin with? |
| You down South with the Klabman, close your fuckin mouth |
| I’m Lenny Jones, chewin steaks, y’all eatin chicken bones |
| 4th of July them city boys come and start trouble |
| Uncle Harold lightin ass with the double barrels |
| Winchester sawed-off, blast a motherfucker’s neck off |
| We blow yo' leg off, the shirts and yo' whole head off |
| We called the ambulance, paramedics in yo' progress |
| My cousin Ricky, with jheri curls through yo' vest |
| Double ocks catch crews out there in many spots |
| Big boy Uncle Pete, down South hustler |
| Go help Aunt Reese, you motherfuckers bring the mustard |
| Chicken salad, don’t fuck with grandma layin on the palette |
| Y’all take aim and rest, with liquor on yo' fuckin breath |
| I put the garbage out, get your ass out the bedroom |
| I tamed the monkey, squeezed the vocals up out the sparrow |
| Usin your tactics, your little speakers sound plastic |
| Crossover samples, don’t try to come, like you Rambo |
| Get in yo' ass again, you get the real blast again |
| I leaned up on the curb and spilled some beer for my folks |
| Took some tokes, Clifton, liftin |
| Suck my anal, the baldheaded kid unclog yo' shit like Drain-o |
| East West hustlers |
| We showin out |