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