Lyrics Blunt to My Lip - Ramirez, Fat Nick

Blunt to My Lip

Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Pull up to your mammy house, I put yo' family straight to sleep
Ridin' with the duster by my side, I’m 'bout to sweep the streets
Tell them hoes the score was murder when I hit their fuckin' town
'Tato tip all on that bitch so that they don’t make no sound
It’s the Grey*59, step inside the Columbine
Where you witness your demise and this throne will still be mine
Grey Gorilla, MAC-9, make your heart flatline
Speaking 'bout my fuckin' clique, buckle up and throw down
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Oh shit, here we go, these Percs and Xans, I’m feelin' low
We skrrt the Porsche, the engine blow, I been too rich, now watch me glow
Draco twitch, now watch me empty out a clip
Shoot, shoot, shoot, bet your luck I’ll hit your shit
VVS my neck, dripped out to my wrist
Where the hunnid, hunnid, hunnid, smoke is in a brick
I got too much on me, that’s why your bitch, she want me
Iced out, all gold, hear the boy froze
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Watchin' for the police 'cause they always tryna catch me, mane
A 2−11 in progress, I’m 'bout to rob this sucka out his shit
Tie him up and tape his mouth, told this bitch, «Don't make no sound»
Throw that busta in the trunk, 'bout to take him hellbound
Out the grave, you can’t kill what’s dead, I like my rum bloody red
My souvenir;
this sucka head, and in the water’s where he dread
Servin' up that hot lead, I like the shotty 'cause it spread
Fuckin' with the Killa, promise by the end, you’ll be dead
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips
Blunt to my lips, gun on my hip
Rocks in my sock, pocket full of chips