Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Gangster Relief, artist - Stomper. Date of issue: 05.07.2010
Song language: English
Gangster Relief |
| Every bitch I came across over 30 and shit |
| But I’m sure they came across the dirtiest dick |
| I got bitches in New York ready to jump my bones |
| These bitch boys never think I’m gonna catch em though |
| A new hyna so fine, with a ass so fly |
| I got a box full of shells and I’m still outside |
| I will bail with a drill and leave you drenched in blood |
| A ski-mask in all black with some matching gloves |
| I’m just a south east legend, from the dub one three |
| Matter of fact baby boy I’m just a certified G |
| With hot shells that I bring |
| Guaranteed to leave a sting |
| I’ll rip the flesh off your face |
| With an AR-15 like |
| Caus when this shit just crack |
| These hos gon blame me |
| Around here we don’t correspond too lightly |
| Matter of fact I heard these muthafucking feds indicting like uh |
| Oh ahh I’m fucking with the light |
| Take a puff hold it in |
| Bucking Glocks at a cop |
| We be setting up shop |
| On them neighborhood street corners |
| My con funk technician slash dope boy stage performer |
| Ain’t no need to fake the funk |
| Homie you don’t wanna |
| I’ll catch ya slipping when you least expect it |
| You’s a goner |
| Bagging fat sacks of glass and I weigh it out |
| I’m catching, got em hooked like a rainbow trout |
| About clocking paper even on a rainy day |
| Get it while you can, homie we bound to die anyway |
| Sign my soul on the dotted line |
| If I ain’t clocking royalties |
| I gotta blast for mine |
| With a mini snort teen and a plastic nine |
| Extra clips in my pocket cause I smash when I’m on the grind |
| And you could bet when I rep and I gain respect |
| I got that one hitter quitter homie |
| P Town connect |
| Well it’s like once upon a time, in the land of the sick |
| I was a crazy little homie, always starting some shit |
| Representing the click, no time for playing no games |
| I hung with killers, drug dealers |
| No love for cowards and lames |
| Born to bang, my only mission was to make me a name |
| Catch me a punk rat vieja, homie blow out his brains |
| Back in the days, my crazy ways they got me locked in a cage |
| Shit I was burning in flames, living my life in a rage |
| Front page I seen my face, now I’m wanted for murder |
| On the run murder one, you know I’m packing my burner |
| By the time I was 16, I had them infrared beams |
| Smoking blunts and busting leans |
| Slanging dope to them fiends |
| I had the bitches sucking dick, and breaking bread with a playa |
| Watching my back for fucking rats |
| And packing straps for the haters |
| South east with the streets, that created a king |
| Born to be one of the realest, out the Sur one three |