| Dont get nuthin confused about me, this nigga hea throw clips
|
| You think you could hold three, nigga hea go six
|
| I bring +Heat+ like Deniro flix, my team lock and load
|
| And rock and roll like Aerosmith
|
| Fuck cops I got Cochran Shapiro chips
|
| One point five in ice in each earlobe shit
|
| Fuck who you and your man go get
|
| Me and cat take +Pussy's+ on boat rides on some Soprano shit
|
| Move wit troops in cougar coupes
|
| Like beeno and notes for a G a piece, they’ll remove your roof
|
| Ya better spread when the ruger shoot
|
| Paul Cane got fire, everything ya heard on Clue was the truth
|
| It’s like who want what what ever
|
| Tou and your man play tough ya gon get plucked together
|
| At gun point gettin stuck together
|
| Black Benz tinted out, buggy headlights stuck together
|
| We ain’t jokin no more (This ain’t a game to us)
|
| Got a lot of hungry niggas that came wit us (We dangerous)
|
| Cock back aim and bust
|
| (Lady Luck, Paul Cane, who could bang wit us)
|
| They said I rap like a man, and act like a man
|
| So when it come to war she gon clap like a man
|
| Short arrogant wit this gat up in my hand
|
| Chicks dont play cute I’m still attractin your man
|
| Rock many lands, Japan to Philly sands
|
| Luck stay ghetto like Rican dolla bands
|
| Only thing I take serious is garments and money
|
| And late periods
|
| Screamin in a 2 by 2, too fly 2 seater
|
| Too much ice, too cold, 2 heaters
|
| Love men but got lesbian guns
|
| That love to lick off at you pussies for fun
|
| So play dumb in these dum dups
|
| Hit you where you pump cum
|
| Stick you for your lump sums
|
| We the ones you run from
|
| Till the day my lungs done for blocks
|
| I hit hard like Ronnie Lotts
|
| Lady Luck got it locked
|
| Ya talkin greasy like Paul ain’t a nigga wit fire
|
| Like I ain’t got guns or killers for hire
|
| Got wolves that’ll run through mask and arms
|
| Like point break clear the safe out and smash your moms
|
| Over 40 years old still blastin chrome
|
| Smiles never cross they face till there’s cash in palm
|
| Cause they still do murders for bucks
|
| Gave em put hollow points through you then pass the burner to Luck
|
| We like a 2 G Bonnie and Clyde, back to back in beef
|
| Wit two heats a piece, mami gon' ryde
|
| Spit four, she behind me wit five
|
| Y’know Paul Cane and Lady Luck MO catch homo’s and slide
|
| Before we drop the guns
|
| Wipe off the prints push the pedal through the floor
|
| And get away back to the bricks, ya don’t want nothin wit us
|
| Paul Cane, Street Life, Desert Storm, we dangerous |