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