Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song We All Over , by - Masters Of IllusionRelease date: 13.11.2000
Song language: English
We All Over |
| kept in time at jail, robbery for six years |
| you missed out on hella money, food, weed and beer |
| called home, stupid jacky never answer the phone |
| what you been doin' |
| trying to concentrate on come-ups |
| we all over |
| takin’over |
| mic controller |
| high rollers |
| north, east, south, west coast |
| throwin’bombs at you |
| I threw the gat in the bac of his 'ac |
| I wore gloves so my fingers wouldn’t make contact |
| it’s either that or do time for this? |
| snatch |
| f’that! |
| partner take the rapper watch yo back |
| and he’s back, who’s that, cadillac all black yo that’s my folks |
| young motion getting out with his yolks |
| changing channels? |
| switching up to sopranos when they see us got’em caught up in a corner like fetus |
| pop the trunk get yo stuff out switch the cars and move fast |
| make 'em walk the plank the pirate’s out here holding his shank |
| you don’t understand the time that you’re doing for me just incase in clifton santiago out here for free |
| whoa don’t tell your partner we got to get it together |
| no more domestic import people stuck out there in customs |
| I don’t trust a motha’bout as far as I can chuck 'em |
| his bodyguard looks familiar, I’m recognizing the scar |
| officers got us at gunpoint, they searchin’the car |
| two chinese men trying to launder 'bout 500 grand |
| they homosexuals, I leave the male pimp in the stand |
| united states government officials look for the man |
| santiago’s got his pictures up in the post office |
| 'cuz santiago is a? |
| last seen selling hash north, east, south west coast |
| I went to ralph’s bought me chicken, my girl some spam |
| drove in the block with a green fleetwood broham |
| gold dayton rims with the diamonds on the edge and trims |
| trunk full of heroine checkin’out the merroine |
| two shotguns, grenades, rockets stashed under the seat |
| l.a.p.d. |
| took my license, but can’t see me tinted windows, big powder, here’s for your nose |
| straight from miami, columbian, puerto rico |
| immigrant right hand man nicknamed chico |
| jamaican posse at the house drinkin’carlo’s ?rossi? |
| carbine 41 shot banana clip machine gun |
| duffel bags, work my cuban west indian shirt |
| callin’the feds up with private numbers tryin’to network |
| official numbers in the stash glove compartment |
| countin’bricks with incense in an empty apartment |
| up on the fourth floor with lactose mixin’raw |
| answer the door, stand behind it with a 44 |
| some sucka named rell, kid rung the wrong bell |
| shut up iesha! |
| this girl tryin to blow my spot |
| I gotta babysit I’m chillin’yo the block is hot |
| transfer my ammo, throw techs in a hefty bag |
| hit the street, I talk of sales when I meet |