Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song No Good, artist - Nappy Roots. Album song Wooden Leather, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 20.08.2003
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Atlantic
Song language: English
No Good |
| Yooooo! |
| I said Yooooo! |
| For all them industry haters that said we couldn’t do it… |
| This for my country thug street yeagas! |
| You know we gon' |
| Smoke good, drink good, eat good, Fleetwood |
| Nickel bag of funk’ll make a country yeaga sleep good |
| Yo' hood, my hood, tote heat, sho' should |
| Folk round here be up to no good |
| (Skinny Deville) |
| My yeaga lookin like one of them days |
| I got a Franklin in my pocket, with this lint like a slave |
| And 20 cent to my name, tryna make this crime pay |
| Money spent, Ben gone, left me with the Hamil-ton |
| Window tint, same ol' song |
| Lincoln on a sack, with the fifty-dat |
| Bump my song, Get drunk, get it crunk |
| Country-fried, pack a blunt |
| Erything tight, Volume 2 off in the trunk, bump |
| In a slump, head-shot got me pumped like a gauge |
| Turn the page, flip the script |
| Hit the script jump, shorty with the dump |
| In the hatchback, ass fat |
| Nickel bag of funk, caught a skunk in a rat trap |
| Sat back, hit it once, hit it twice, pass that |
| Mashed-out, Fleetwood, Cadillac, headed South |
| Woodgrain, Pure Grain, hold it in and let it out |
| Bouncin' like a bunny hunny, tell the shorty set it out |
| Get in where we fit in, we gon' try our best to sell it out |
| (B Stille) |
| We makes it hot for 'em, feel the flames |
| Who seperate the real from lames |
| Yeaga B Stille’s his name |
| (Where you from?) |
| The Ville, LaGrange, to Mills and Fane |
| Look how far Louisville’s done came! |
| Now break it down |
| I like my pockets fat |
| And my weed green |
| And my liquor brown |
| And my hens clean |
| With they panties down |
| And a beat that keep my yeagas bouncin, bouncin, bouncin, bouncin |
| Check, check |
| My mic vocals, is like choke-holds |
| Fetch the billfold that my cheese is in |
| And purchase a nickel to help me breathe again |
| I’m from a place where blood spills and stains |
| Filled with drug deals and gangs |
| Yeagas with gold grills and thangs |
| Drink up, fill ya tanks, spill ya drinks |
| It’s Nappy, dawg, untamed |
| Southern slang, unchanged |
| We sendin' slugs through ya brain |
| (Fuck what you know, good) |
| And all my thugs, for the sane |
| (Fish Scales) |
| A cool cat, with a pimp hat |
| Cup fulla Gin-Jack |
| Dreaded out, throwin up deuces |
| When I’m headed out |
| Slice it up and bet it out, 5−0-4 |
| Throw the prices up and set it out |
| Real niggas never doubt |
| Swerve to the calico, give me a deuce of that |
| Make it 2 of that, pack a tip, flush a Optimo |
| Keep the change, got to go |
| Flirt, tryna talk dirty |
| Georgia-bred, you can tell by my Hawk jersey |
| Hit me up if you get off early |
| Then I dap out, so clean |
| Yo honey actin' mo' mean |
| Napped-out, momma asking me «What's all that 'bout?» |
| Say I got big plans, look slim but mapped-out |
| Country boy with country game |
| Never spittin' nothin' lame |
| Get paid to rap, still a dap like ain’t nothin' changed |
| My shit stay Nappy, split ends stay happy |
| Bad threads must’ve came from his pappy |