Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Whatcha Gonna Do, artist - Shyne. Album song Shyne, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 19.04.2005
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Bad Boy
Song language: English
Whatcha Gonna Do |
| Once upon a time, not long ago |
| When gangstas rocked waves sold dope and sniffed lo' |
| There was a young G by the name of Shyne Poe |
| Puttin' it down, cuttin' it up and cookin' it now |
| It’s been a lotta dick ridin' for lack of a betta words |
| Speculations on the guns I hold underneath my furs |
| Similarities in my voice nigga check the words |
| I’m in for winter to doe’s that pinch merds from the cur |
| Dodgin' and dippin' the narcs |
| It’s the young Frank Matthews the rap version |
| Touch my trap on my smack the gats burstin' |
| That’s certain leave ya face and ya chest and ya back jerkin' |
| Uh--y'all got me fucked up like |
| My desert eagle and my sick doom bust right |
| Like my guns is racin', muthafucka don’t you know I |
| Make ya heart stop and ya body start shakin' |
| Now you know the bottom line of this rhyme crime |
| 25 to life plus 9 |
| Whatcha gon' do when shit hit the fed |
| Take it like a man or snitch like a bitch |
| Whatcha gon' do when shit hit the fan |
| Pray to God, go hard or lay up in the morgue |
| Evil grin, dead eyes, walkin wit a bock, monster |
| Best way to describe my posture |
| In this world of sin I’m as wicked as they come |
| Moonlightin' as a rapper get this ticket and I’m done |
| Ain’t enough money here I ratha be in the tropics |
| Wit Corsicans where narcotics is the only topic |
| Persian rocks and things the man that made of snow |
| Tiger par |
| And every other form of raw |
| Since a team been handlin, nigga been scramblin' |
| Bettin' on money in Vegas gamblin' |
| Desert in the abdomen, pissy drunk stylin', staggerin' |
| More than you can imaginin |
| Uh--thoughts randomin, runnin through my mind |
| Like who’s the best MC’s — Biggie, Jay-Z, and Shyne |
| Demented as a young’n, Alpo 2nd comin' |
| Evil thoughts runnin' through my cerebellum |
| Shyne Poe what the fuck you gon' tell 'em? |
| All you niggas that wanna be fly my gun shots’ll propell 'em |
| Leavin' somewhere smellin', repellin' |
| Closed caskets for you fuckin' bastards c’mon |
| Only the strong survive, weak niggas bleed |
| And get found, wit they fuckin' face down |
| Numb from the waist down |
| I din been to hell and back |
| Twice and still in crack |
| Stare death in the eyes and never blink |
| Headshots rip through my mink |
| Went to war wit the realist killas |
| Killed friends over jealousy and envy |
| My heart’s empty |
| Behind the wheel of my Bentley |
| Coke-d up feelin invincible |
| Bout to take over the world I can’t be stopped |
| Not the feds or the fuckin' cops |
| Not even 17 shots |
| Can put a end to this terror |
| I’mma live forever, cause gangstas don’t break |
| We just get plastic surgery and relocate |
| To anotha state |
| Or island, smilin, money pilin, wildin |
| Yo Puff over done them fuckin violins |
| Uh this shit is bigger than me though ask Oliver North |
| Kill you then use your corpse, to transport horse |
| Leave ya brains hangin' from ya fuckin' car window |
| Any nigga snitch and givin' info |
| Since my motha stomach coke and liquor |
| Was the mixture |
| Betta be prepared when we hit ya |
| — repeat to fade |