| MoSS Productions
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| Obie Trice…
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| Ha ha, yeah!
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| Rap is a necessity, so God don’t question me
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| About how long I been doin this shit here
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| I spark like a flare, and tear through a stank bitch underwear
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| When my testosterone’s in full gear
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| I’m rugged — and when the music bump out
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| I call niggas out, that’s how I club it
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| Shit, you dug it, yo' punk ass got retarded
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| Cause the moment my music bump your pussy ass farted
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| Ha! |
| That’s how hard I hit
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| Call it collision effect to make you player haters sick
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| Obie Trice truly is ridiculous with lyrics
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| I know you wanna drive my style but talk stiddicks
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| New millenium nigga, bringin mayhem
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| My slave rap is for real, games I never played 'em
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| I’ll stab him in the abdomen
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| And leave him gaspin for air like asthma really attacked him
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| I’ll leave you paralyzed with no more action, or verb
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| I know Obie get on your nerves
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| I’m like a nigga tryin to stay at your spot, without a job
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| Or a gang of thugs beatin on your head by the mob
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| Run that sob but no more heartthrob
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| You’re stiff like a carcass full of maggots and shit
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| Layin on the corner
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| I leave bodies more rotted than John Jr.'s body at the motherfuckin coroner
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| Your face mutilated, legs decapitated
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| From foul fuckin your dick, your dick disintegrated
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| Burnt niggas never learned nigga
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| It’s Obie Trice — now say nice!
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| My veins pump purple rain
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| My pores sweat liquid cocaine
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| My eyes are dry, dry, dry.
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| My spirit’s maaade in proof
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| My body craaaves that juice
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| My mind is high, high, high.
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| You on the wrong side of these drums
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| I intensify your high
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| Bump me through your systems and watch blood trickle out your eye
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| I make you feel like you meltin, or seein the devil, in 3-D
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| Only it’s Obie on CD
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| Mr. Trice unfamiliar?
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| But I’m the same nigga that killed ya — go read ya poem
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| I hit harder than them Hiroshima type bombs
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| Relocate arms — no more wri-ting
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| Obie Trice be live for the night
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| And any nigga try to take that, threatens my excitement
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| And yo, that’s when I get violent
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| And create with your blood like the red violin
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| Yeah, I bet you’ll be silent then
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| O. Trice rock harder than infinite horny men
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| Tipsy off gin, that’s when I begin to sin
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| Even if I lose no one wins
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| I’m an ex-convict escaped from hell
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| Returned, to take the world over as well
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| MC’s rather me be in the cell
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| Rather than seein me up the block hoppin out a drop-top 12
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| I come strapped, with a pack of gats
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| That’ll eliminate you, and that flat you stay at
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| Nosy neighbors
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| I break out the arsenic arsenal and firebomb your block for acres
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| Who would’ve thought? |
| Me!
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| Obie Trice, the destruction of a fake wannabe
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| You claim you’re hardcore when you’re soft as you wanna be
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| That type of shit gets you lost unfortunately
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| Your mother miss ya, she thinks she ain’t shit
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| «Oh I ain’t raised him right! |
| Oh I’m such a bitch!»
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| Shit change, when the bullet meets the brain
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| Leave a ugly first impression
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| And leave a dirty mess on your girlfriend’s dress
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| And he wouldn’t give a fuck, how loud the bitch screamin
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| Call him a demon, I call him a slug
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| Not a thug but a slug that’ll rip through a thug’s mug
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| Blaow!
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| New millenium shit |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Roughnecks, artist - Obie Trice. Album song Special Reserve, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп