Lyrics Live At the BBQ - Styles of Beyond

Live At the BBQ

Ap ain’t merciful
Shoot up your convertible
Lay your body flat while your soul goes vertical
Versatile, impossible to pigeon hole
Gettin’doe, spittin’flows
From complex text to pimpin’hoes
That’s why your girlfriend feel me man
It’s alarmin’how charmin’I really am
Got a glock that’ll Rock like a Band
So this gun in my right hand is named Steely Dan
Steal the show, steal hoes, steal your fans
Steal my flow?
We’ll hang you from ceiling fans
Your little hoe tryin’to front like she’s hard to get off?
Tell that finger lickin’chicken bring the barbecue sauce
Ayo I stay clean Rake Doe, lay low with a full clip
My yayo fiends on payroll get smacked over bullshit
Motive, notice I never fall victim to no one
The truth that’ll fuck tracks in the booth with a Trojan
Respect due cause whole crew, is professionals
Quickly show a nigga what a knife in the chest will do
While y’all front, still spittin’the same
The only time y’all kill somethin’is on a video game
Cause any beef we’re gonna ride at all cost
Have you shot in your cars
Have you sittin'+Sideways+ like Paul Wall
Chopped and Screwed up, cause you niggas do suck
That’s why your girls chained to our sticks like nunchucks
You got a death wish I’m the Fresh Prince of tech clips
You gotta respect it
The west died I came in
Resurrected the west side like Game did
You ain’t shit
I came with a gang that’s brain dead
And walk around talkin’to they selves like Rain Man
My game plan is thick
Your dames on my dick
All my girlfriends got name tags that all say «Bitch»
Y’all can’t really spit
Rip tracks, I spit crack
Click chrome and finish off cliques like six packs
S.O.B./be the first sucker to mouth off
I call Celph up tell him to bring me the cow prod
And that’s all
(AND THAT’S ALL!)
Don’t ask me for nothin'
Ask me for somethin'
Mega-Ton bombs strapped to my chest
Don’t even ask if I’m buggin'
Warlord from the dark star
All my dogs bark paw
Talk hard and get hit by a parked car
Swimmin’where the sharks are
Yes I’m one guy
That won’t speak when I’m holdin’heat cause I’m gun shy
You’re damn right that I’m a studio gangster
Bring the Mac-11 to your mix down and shoot the place up
Your bitch get face fucked
Bustin’on her Clairol
Deep throatin’so far she coughin’up hairballs
Disregard the law
Fuck a gun ban
I got a group of musicians with AKs that’s my gun band
See it’s like that y’all (that y’all)
That y’all (that y’all)
And that’s all!
You know me homie I’m a tax a million cats
Till they can’t rap
Get the cash that feelin''em yeah
They call him Tak with a glass of Guinness
To rock city blocks
And bringin''em +Back To The Grill+ again
The Demi-G.O.D.s
We take 'em a little higher
Than California bud when we smoke trees
Tryin’to walk is like Calypso with broke knees
With half of your body slain with your brain in your goatee
Oww, that’s on S.O.B.
Plus I carry a knife cause I’m a sick dope fiend
Got 'em panickin', damn it cause the bandit has spoken
Yeah, it don’t take much to bust a cantaloupe open
Bitch