Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Bust Your Gun (feat. Styles & Sheek), artist - The Lox. Date of issue: 12.04.2014
Song language: English
Bust Your Gun (feat. Styles & Sheek) |
| Shit is crazy. |
| can’t believe it |
| Ha, haha, oooh, shit |
| We don’t give a fuck about you frostin' ya hand (fuck), |
| cause knockin' off these bricks then often yo' man |
| That’s the kinda boss that I am (why not), |
| and I’ma play shotgun, smoke the pores make a van |
| Hollarin' at you so deep and so sick wit' the guns |
| When I walk by the wake I want the cough in the stand (stand up) |
| So hold up for one minute (what) |
| You won’t catch me in the tub, in the whip, |
| or the club without a gun in it, |
| and don’t come through the strip, |
| lookin' hard in the car, with ya motherfuckin' daughter and ya son in it |
| Lately I been missin' my fred, the roof pop (too hot), |
| but feel me cause he hittin' the stairs, the truth pop |
| Niggaz think this album cuts (haha!) |
| I’m like fuck it, I’m the nigga comin through the door wit two revolvers up |
| (two 'em), |
| and I’m takin' all drama, |
| and I spent twenty thou' motherfucker so I just got more problems |
| You got’sta bust yo' gun, |
| cause if you don’t then niggaz know you won’t they gon' touch yo' ones |
| Got’sta bend yo' knife, |
| cause if you don’t then niggaz know you won’t they gon' change yo' life |
| Aiyyo, who gotta my name huh? |
| Who think it’s a fuckin' game (c'mon) |
| Like yo' money can’t be found under the cane (y'know) |
| Like yo' body can’t be found under the trains |
| Like this punk we’ll shatter apart your brain (bla!) |
| I’ma thug wit' no scars, and no braids, |
| but I could aim, and shoot through the heart or your shades |
| I’m too row, plus too quick on the gat (uh-huh) |
| Hate water, but I leave you wit' a wills play-back |
| I don’t give a fuck if all y’all go to the cops, |
| and I don’t give a fuck if none of y’all gimmie my props |
| I got shit in my name and my credit is worse |
| What’s to stop me from shootin' you first? |
| FUCK YOU! |
| (haha) |
| I’m like tattoos, you forget that I’m there (uh-huh) |
| To the gun fire perm your hair |
| Miss you, and go strait through your moms rockin' chair, |
| through her back and it ain’t stopin' there! |
| Bounce my niggaz. |
| c’mon |
| Sheek and S.P., rock, rock on (c'mon) |
| Bust shots 'til your glock can’t pop no more (hahaha) |
| Let it down 'til your top can’t drop no more (uh-huh) |
| Hit you up 'til your spirit where the Eagles fly (c'mon) |
| Talk to me, if you really come back then you’ll die (c'mon) |
| Make me believe, no shirt but still got some shit up my sleeve |
| No asthma, makin' it hard to breathe |
| Let’s go, aiyyo Styles take this motherfuckin' mic from me, c’mon |
| Aight. |
| aiyyo, P’ll tell it like story, just like a narrator |
| Ya don’t mean it, we snappin' it like the Aligators |
| Open ya eyes so you can see what the drama mean |
| I hit ya man in the cheek wit' a barber blade, |
| and I’m in the first floot at the Parade |
| Forty on the weights wit' a fifty on the garcarade |
| Always got the route, never had the heart to beg |
| You ain’t seein' shit 'til a slug rip a part’a head |