| I’ve got my winter coat, hoodie hat and gloves on
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| Waiting at the bus stop
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| Thinkin' its not blatant as I bust shots
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| Ruff, what?!
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| Crouching on the stair case
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| Shottin' robbin' bare face, mockeries
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| Nobody comes to their aid
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| Present day!
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| February she’s here, so we’sees the leap year
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| Hide away that secret stash and keep clear
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| We fear!
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| Nothing, not a damn thing
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| Pulling out like ham strings
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| Makes you wanna flip out, click clack
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| Bang bang!
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| Pressure got my blood pumping
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| And running and drug juggling
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| Which I am currently gun smuggling
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| Fake scams!
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| Credit cards and cashbacks
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| Gameplan he’s name-brand
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| Selling g’s and getting keys for free bags
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| Hard food!
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| Deep in from a tall block
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| Freezing my cock and balls off
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| Seein' three crack fiends, packed in one call box
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| Weed cakes!
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| Put in on the big scales
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| Bag it up and make sales
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| Get back on your hustle, grizzle
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| Whatever!
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| Trouble making younger lads
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| Guns in the plastic bags
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| And back packs for fun cutting slags
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| Dog flats!
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| Currency or coke racks
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| You might get your throat slashed
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| Watch your back the feds have got your phone tapped
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| Reckless!
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| A bundle of teenagers
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| Under police surveillance
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| We don’t give a fuck
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| We’re smotherin' the pavement
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| Think fast!
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| I was rarely in class
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| Can’t you see that shit’s hard
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| So I am on my hustle, grizzle
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| Whatever!
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| We’re born in the b’s so I’m never gonna stop
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| The euros, dollars, p’s, I’m gonna get a lot
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| From sun-up to sundown round through to whenever
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| No resting whatever the weather
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| We’re born in the b’s so I’m never gonna stop
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| The euros, dollars, p’s, I’m gonna get a lot
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| From sun-up to sundown round through to whenever
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| No resting whatever the weather, yeah
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| In these unfriendly streets
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| Munching on some jelly beans
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| Hungry as a he’ll ever be, he’s looking for that
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| Go steal!
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| Till it comes he won’t chill
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| A crook becoming so ill
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| He’s looking at some road kill
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| Like «maybe I should
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| Grab that!»
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| Lost everything he had
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| Stashed, he left that in his backpack
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| And kept it in his nan’s flat
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| His bredren must have
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| Nabbed that!
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| He worked like a lab rat
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| The first sign of that cat
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| He swears he’s gonna flip out, click clack
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| Bang bang!
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| He’s troubled 'n' juggled and in drug smuggling
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| But someone done him in
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| Now he’s stuck in the slums, suffering
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| Without rules!
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| The scoundrel, who used to have a house full
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| But now new reduced to lacking mouthfuls
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| He’s doubtful
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| He’ll get his cash!
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| Back to where his two-faced brethren’s at
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| Spending then forgetting that he soon may regret the flash
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| He didn’t run
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| That pistol on the victim’s gonna sing a song
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| But 'til it’s on he’ll get back on his hustle, drizzle, whatever
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| Racist feds, fucked out kids
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| out chicks stunk like shit |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song February - Whateva Da Weatha, artist - Ramson Badbonez. Album song A Year in the Life of Oscar the Slouch, in the genre Дабстеп