| Comin down grippin grain, diamonds up against the wood
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| Tops drop, blades chop, trunk is popped, I’m lookin good
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| Swangin down the boulevard, chunky deuce, the fifth is shinin
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| The queen is ridin shotgun and Finger’s behind me
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| So never you mind me, I’m just hustling, grindin
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| My pockets are heavy and my diamonds are blindin
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| My pistols are loaded and cocked so know that I’m ready
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| I’ll die for my family dog but I’ll kill for my fair day
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| R.I.P. |
| to my baby bro, UGK until
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| It ain’t no stopping this movement, you lose on the real
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| Cause we keeping it trill, that’s from ashes to dust
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| We got paper to make and fake nigga’s asses to bust
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| If you down for your hood, and you bangin that Screw
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| Put your sets in the sky, cause this one is for you
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| Keep on keepin it true, fuck haters and again
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| Cause we don’t play the game to say we play, we play to win
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| Leanin to the side, you cain’t speed through
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| Two miles per hour, so everybody sees you
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| Ridin by myself, with the pistol in the do'
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| «Sippin, sippin on lean, sippin, sippin on bo'»
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| Candy on my big wheel, yeah man I’m still a kid
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| Twenty-six, rims same age as me, can you dig?
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| Ridin down the block, knockin pictures off your wall
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| Just showin off my grill made by Paul Wall
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| Alpine speakers in my grill on blast
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| Like my boys in Texas, hittin corner on them slabs
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| Seat laid back, you know how us pimps be
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| Keep your head up Bun B, rest in peace Pimp C
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| A mill' on mine rolled back to back and young millionaires we haven’t scratched
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| Rhyme through the hood and habitat, candy paint look like some cabbage patch
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| Haters hot, they mad at that, Chamillionaire, how F.A.B. |
| get that?
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| Two dimes in a car, how bad is that? |
| King of the jungle, you an alley cat
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| Prince of the coast brought Cali back, just threw some D’s on a Cadillac
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| Smoke so much, got cataracts, been rollin up for a matter of fact
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| F.A.B. |
| get love where F.A.B. |
| is at, from the Bay to the South where them slabs
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| is at
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| Oakland down to Houston, only rollin with them savage cats
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| It’s gon' be, F-A-C, T to the Feds gon' mess with me
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| And F-A-B, when they see, mixtape money yes they pay me
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| Mugabe, Inspector G, bring 'em all cause they cain’t get me
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| Ten vehicles parked in the yard, pick your choice, I’ll get that key
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| Take that jet out to West, let’s swang and get our swerve on
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| Hit that strip in my whip, gon' strip and let them sexy curves show
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| Vehicle sittin very low, pimp that caddy very slow
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| They like «Yeah, Chamillionaire, the realest I done heard holmes»
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| I’m leanin to the side sideways, sittin crooked
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| My Jolly Rancher paint got all of the people lookin
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| I’m beatin down the block, givin the streets an ass whoopin
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| Peep the way a player move, take notes lil young-un
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| I’m movin slow mo', leanin off a potent fo'
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| Pistol in my lap, plus another one in the side do'
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| You know I’m just a young hustler all about my doe
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| Gettin cake and stackin up that paper, I need mo'
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| «Sippin, sippin on lean, sippin, sippin on bo'» |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song 2 MPH , by - Mistah F.A.B.. Song from the album Play Time Is Over, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп