| Drop ya thangs and just box
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| Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box
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| Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box
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| Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box
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| Yo, I hit the party in my t-shirt and tennis shoes
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| They all watchin in they Hot Boys and church suits
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| Actin tough in the club ain’t gon' get you home
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| Gettin drunk off of Patron just gon' get you domed
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| Still steppin on my shoes, boy this nigga happy
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| This nigga thank he Lil' Jon and his partner Scrappy
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| Goin dumb with his bitch so he don’t like me
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| This ain’t the South boy, we ain’t crunk we go hyphy
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| You gotta know the rules, player let it go
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| You get to trippin my nigga you gotta hit the do'
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| Rollin up this eight-nine gram I’m tryin to make a plan
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| Tuggin on yo' main bitch hand, tryin to make a friend
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| This time for escapade only make the tec a-spray
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| I’m in the parkin lot, standin by the Escalade
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| You got a problem we ain’t fightin like a man
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| One-on-one with the Fig', get yo' face in the sand, nigga
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| Nigga you a bitch wit’cho gun, snitch wit’cho gun
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| Still get found in a ditch wit’cho gun
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| Bitch wit’cho gun, snitch wit’cho gun
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| Still get found in a ditch wit’cho gun
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| Yo, Fig' never play with them guns, no you hear me
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| Fig' ain’t shot nuttin up but kill spirits
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| Fig' ain’t the one to be, scared of the losses
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| One-on-one fightin for stripes with right crosses
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| Uppercuts and heatbutts to get a head rush
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| Bitch niggas rather kick back, and let they lead bust
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| I been a pitbull since Fila and Kenny Ken
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| Used to chuck 'em by the corner sto' whoever win
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| Them was my O.G.'s, and I was just a B. G
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| Whoever want to see me, Figgaro can
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| But now we got them old niggas that bust with they tommy
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| But caught without they tommy get rushed like salami
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| Cause everybody tired of them R.I.P.'s
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| We 'bout to bring this fightin back mayne to all our streets
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| Now, cowards wanna pack and, killers wanna cruise and
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| Real niggas stand alone mayne and do what we do
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| I wanna bust you but homey let me ask you
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| Why you wanna play with that gun, and make me blast you
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| Moms all cryin and shit, she gotta ask you
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| better to save on caskets you dumb nigga
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| Oh boy! |
| Old friends like to make up and get cavi
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| Hell nah, she in the club wit’cho baby daddy
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| She got the coat on he bought you for yo' birthday (oh no!)
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| You kickin back, I’m 'bout to clown him in the worst way (bitch)
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| Team on preem' like he hangin out with 'Pac brother
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| And you a boss for not cuttin him with the boxcutter
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| And it was cool 'til this chick really got to trippin
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| Spittin drink in yo' face, boy she popped up pimpin (what?)
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| Zoked out like, fat boy you can’t breathe
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| Bounce back and grab that trick by her fuckin weave
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| Bring her to the flo', teach her 'bout the Get Low
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| She gon' really know, mob her on the danceflo'
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| Yeah I gotta acknowledge them fo' carloads of HP niggas
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| That came to Fillmoe for y’all one-on-ones mayne, and y’all got it mayne
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| Niggas put the guns down and after that nigga it was real big
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| They get stripes for that, nigga, special shoutout nigga
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| To them three young Sunnydale niggas
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| Nigga that was surrounded by ten Fillmoe niggas mayne
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| And all y’all wanted was one-on-ones and y’all got it nigga
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| Stripes for that! |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Drop Ya Thangs , by - The Game. Song from the album Untold Story - Part 2, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп