Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Bloodshed and War , by - Mobb Deep. Release date: 10.06.2012
Song language: English
Bloodshed and War |
| Don’t get scared, just be prepared for the worst |
| The streets coerced my mind with crime |
| My 9 busts shots and outbursts |
| Through your back out your thinker |
| And show these crab niggas the power of the finger |
| Quran, you wouldn’t believe the shit I fell upon |
| It was me and Havoc sippin' on Moet Chandon |
| I went outside to drain my main vein for some relief |
| Found a backpack full of G notes |
| And like a thief, I snatched it up |
| Back at the crib I stashed it up |
| Waited two days and started spendin' it fast as fuck |
| Straight up splurgin' |
| Open like a virgin with her first piece of dick, 10 yards ain’t shit |
| I blessed all the gods with thousands and cars |
| No more hustlin', now we can open up bars |
| To wash all this money clean |
| Nigga, it’s the American dream, but it ain’t as easy as it seems |
| ‘Cause now these mob niggas looking for they cream |
| And word got back through this fiend that it was me |
| Who stole they lucci |
| Now they putting out hits tryin' to shoot me |
| But I’m out in L.A. on the low livin' Gucci |
| And lavish, they tryin' to take they money back |
| It’s two to they cabbage, Quran, what’s the haps, kid? |
| (Man its whatever, I got the heat we can do this 'cause yo) |
| We all one when when it comes down to it |
| Bloodshed and war, yo, we gotta live through it |
| I break through with my WB crew Q Ball packs |
| The steel having niggas running like fire drills |
| We sending fronters on permanent vacations like Jason |
| You’ll get cut in half and left with your heart racin' |
| By the TEC you’ll get smashed together like a cleavage |
| And left a mystery like when Mary had Jesus |
| Nigga, I’m sniping crowds |
| Like that white kid on Higher Learning |
| Leave you on the ground with your fucking chest burning |
| What! |
| We breaking out and unstoppable like acne |
| I’m rough and rugged, you cut more slack than khakis |
| When the Philly takes you to another state of mind |
| It causes you to wild and commit mad crimes |
| We dwell in the dark trees, sellin' Jeeps, '95 Blazers |
| Call us a bunch of hell raisers |
| Timberlands and Skullys is all you see |
| When you enter the harsh and rugged lands of Illy Philly |
| It was a quarter to one, friday night |
| Loaded up the guns, jump on the horn, called up my son |
| «Son, yo, come through, I got a proposition for you |
| Keep it on the low so the plan won’t spoil» |
| My crew’s loyal, they came over in a minute |
| Then we kicked 'bout this nigga who think he getting bigger |
| Pumping on our side |
| Don’t even know him from a hole in the wall |
| Tonight is gonna be his downfall |
| So fuck him and everything he stand for |
| About this time he’d be on the corner |
| Slingin; |
| with a crackhead that be bringin |
| Sales to the building, plus the bitch is fiendin' |
| I figure we can get the goods, kill the nigga |
| And being that we live right next to the river |
| We can catch him off guard |
| Throw him in the water for the Coast Guard |
| Come on, God, the shit ain’t hard |
| Think! |
| Throw on your gear and cover up your face |
| And keep your eyes open for the Jakes |
| The snakes and the snitches |
| Don’t wanna see a nigga with the riches |
| Acting like a little bunch of bitches |
| Pointing me out in pictures |
| When five-oh is like, «You know who this is?» |
| It’s Havoc, you better recognize and realize |
| They call me the Godfather son |
| I smoke L’s and pack guns, keep niggas on the run |
| Cocaine, I’m on the scale measuring grams and O’s |
| Hoes came out with no clothes |
| So I can wake up in the dough |
| I keeps a 9 in my freezer |
| Cold blood flows within my veins, cold heart like Lebanese |
| Sippin' on Champ, its all about C notes and grants |
| Living elegant in a Lex coupe Allaire |
| Plus a young hustler carrying guns |
| Sellin' coke for funds, flippin' keys by the tons |
| Twenty five grand a week, fiends creep |
| No sleep nor do they eat, bed around 6 feet deep |
| More goals to be achieved in this hip hop dream |
| But shit ain’t the same as my eye see cream |
| I dwell by the minute, I gots to make more cash |
| C notes accumulating every day in my stash |
| Making hits, '95, the raw clique |
| M30 with my lady Motorola phone flips |
| The quick gamer, full blooded money maker |
| Sharp razor, drinking daqs in Jamaica |