Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song How It Should Be, artist - Rydah F. KlydeDate of issue: 21.04.2003
Song language: English
How It Should Be |
| Je je jeah, nigga! |
| ugh |
| It’s a Mob Figa event |
| My nigga J. Klyde |
| Ya bitches |
| Ho up, or blow up ya stank bitch |
| Jeah |
| Yukmouth in the mutha fuckin' house ya hoes, SHEES! |
| Jeah |
| Pop ya colla and ya chain nigga |
| What! |
| What! |
| Jeah! |
| We getting' it, the magnificent |
| 20 inchin' it, conceded |
| Only in the model bitch I’m interested |
| Weeded |
| Splif after splif we smoke infinite |
| Blingin' |
| Chained to my dick and shit |
| Pop Crys ridiculous |
| Flow like terrific |
| Rippin' it, spittin' it |
| Fuck all your written shit |
| Here’s your death certificate |
| Yuk fucks 'em up on some different shit |
| Make bitches shave from they tits to they clitoris |
| Make the innocent college bitch eat the licorice |
| Crash the Jag |
| Next day flip a bigga six |
| King of Oakland but not on no Jigga shit |
| This Regime life bitch niggas witness this |
| Oakland to Pittsburg smokin' herb |
| In mink coats and furs |
| Niggas slang hydro and birds |
| In Cali fuckin' video hoes and center folds |
| But still retire rappers like Arsenio Shows nigga |
| Chorus: |
| Fly gangsta how you get so fly? |
| Them other birds go hard when they try |
| They look sloppy what is it a carbon copy? |
| You the nigga boy I ain’t gon' lie |
| Coochie in Gucci, Channelle |
| Louie and oouie |
| Got diamonds in his mouth |
| I stared when he spoke to me |
| He probably buying cake |
| Trynna get me to buy his type |
| He fly away I hope he come back to me |
| Fly Gangsta! |
| Yo I’mma let the hatters do them |
| My neck and wrist I draped it |
| Untouchable, M-O-B Figa affiliated |
| Or how I feel to make it out the roughest of times |
| Grandma raised me and my cousin, three sisters I grind |
| Some years later |
| She at the school I had no shine |
| And half the time the clothes wasn’t even mine |
| But in do time |
| Junior high, '89 |
| Me and Brittle started to grind |
| See who got free waps from E-Y-T Swann had bomb |
| He scored from Fat Rat |
| Early 90's grimy boy we at that |
| My pockets got the mumps |
| For real work off in my backpack |
| Cross cords and silk shirts got me missin' every class |
| Now she flirtin' |
| Winkin' the lashes |
| I’m too high to catch a pass |
| I’m getting' money bitch |
| I ain’t got time |
| Shit unless she trynna grind for a fly gangsta in his prime |
| Keep ya eye on me |
| And quarter ounces ridin' from my project buildin' |
| I’m livin' grimy lookin' like a million |
| Watch me |
| Now I’m slidin' through the night |
| In the same shoes I could have died in |
| A hundred times count my blessin’s |
| Pick my nine see the times change |
| In sub stations in the housin' |
| I’m in my bumpin' 11/5 browsin' |
| With thousands in rubber bands |
| It’s dirty money from the gutter man |
| The block is crowded gettin' cluttered man |
| Who is this mutha fucka Gem? |
| You know him? |
| He housin' high speed |
| Hittin' gates |
| Scuffin' the shit out my Nike’s |
| Or maybe in my zone at home writin' |
| I got a plan to blow |
| Stick up money and grams is movin' slow |
| I spread my wings |
| Got my weight up |
| Now the hatters they know |
| Cuz when a nigga havin' paper it show |
| Birds of the same feather fly together |
| We make a nigga wanna have his cheddar |
| Who got ya gritting in the coldest weather? |
| You goin' hard and you gettin' better |
| The F-L-Y to the seventh letter |
| In any weather |
| I’m Fly Gangsta |
| Bitch! |