Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Cadillac, artist - Three 6 Mafia. Date of issue: 29.10.2007
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Cadillac |
| Fell in love with a Cadillac — 2X |
| Trunk turn flip, like a acrobat |
| Broke up with my foreign car, and fell in love with a Cadillac — 3X |
| Trunk turn flip, like a acrobat |
| I woke up, thinking foreign car |
| But the Cadillac, got a nigga sitting in a daze |
| 24's hittin switches, sitting sideways |
| Trae flipping through the hood, like I’m running through a maze |
| Find me trunk up, with the top back |
| One deep in the front, two freaks in the back |
| Haters mad at me, cause I’m MVP stats |
| Better give me fifty feet, cause I’m good with the gat |
| Good with the track, like I’m good with the hands |
| 15's banging, like I’m battle of the bands |
| New Benz like send, they run up out of grand |
| And the trunk read Trae, so they know that I’m the man |
| Me Paul Wall, in a slab out of Texas |
| In a Cadillac, had to get rid of the Lexus |
| Rather be gangsta, tipping on something |
| With something in the clip, that’ll get rid of the plexing |
| I fell in love, with my Coupe DeVille |
| It’s on a switch, it’s the truth for real |
| Scraping the back down, these Southwest streets |
| Got a few teeth in the grill, loose for real |
| Big pumps, two to the front one to the back |
| One wheel in the air, gliding like that |
| Three O-7, rebuilt without chrome |
| Hundred spoke Daytons, with the two prones |
| Next week, I’m in some’ing from the Lowrider book |
| I’mma show these motherfuckers, how a lowrider look |
| Hit a switch on Boss, will get your lowrider took |
| In '98, I use to be the lowrider crook |
| Fleetwoods, El-Dogs Sedan DeVilles |
| When I ride, always equipped with handy steel |
| Cocked up on three, and got em standing still |
| I’m in the attic, wondering when I’m gon land and chill |
| I’m never staying focused, always smoking |
| Presidential kushing, always choking |
| Nigga I drank up, all your purple |
| If I find out, that shit be potent |
| Mayn I get high, fuck that shit |
| Your baby mama out here, sucking my dick |
| I’mma make her pay me, that child support |
| I’m a pimp out here, trying to make it rich |
| If you really wanna get high, let me know |
| I’ll tell C.B., let you hit that blow |
| We can ride in the Cadillac, way in the fucking back |
| Hitting all the spots, just hogging that ho |
| Then take a lot of freaks, to the Hotel room |
| System on blast, you can hear that boom |
| Mayn I’mma pop bout, two three X |
| And drop my drawas, and take this chewing |
| See in that M-Town, we snort that blow |
| Turn around mayn, and whip our hoes |
| Take me big gulp, full of that drank |
| Now I’m high, don’t know what to think |
| First I had em beating fast, now I got em knocking slow |
| Sniff a lil' mo' of this sip a lil' mo' of that, even down the middle whoa |
| Closed up my foreign do’s, opened up my American do’s |
| '72 Sedan DeVille, 84's and 20 inch vogues |
| Chandillere, hanging from the top |
| Fish tank, lit up in the glass box |
| But I had to put, the toy fish in it |
| Cause the real ones died, from the kick box bitch |
| Jay’Ton, pull up in a Lac cocked up |
| 22 inch chrome, bags popped up |
| Diamonds in our mouth, cash stocked up |
| Ice game six, so the game locked up |
| 9−4 Fleetwood, headlights on |
| Fifth let back, but the trunk moved on |
| Flying through the hood, with the six 12's on |
| Seal in the groove, super kush to the dome |
| 19 in the game, only love for my Lac |
| Never loving a dame, swang to the left |
| When I’m hulling the frame, trying to take mine |
| You’ll be hugging a stain, like I’m hugging the lane |
| Screw tape still on, drank in my cup |
| Everytime, that I roam |
| Roach ass hoes, still calling my phone |
| Representing for the South, H-Town is my home |
| I’m a 24 inch black, Fleetwood glider |
| Tipping the block, they love the way the drop sit wider |
| Lord knows haters mad, when the left fly by ya |
| Call it what you want, but the Lac stay way liver |
| Boppers all on my dick, with the trunk up |
| Beating up the Boulevard, with the beat pumped up |
| Hit a switch on the remote, the front jump up |
| Run up on the slab, roam that’ll get you lumped up |
| Hopping out looking like do’s, got threw on backwards |
| Throwed wardrobe, by my bed son of a bastard |
| When it come to Cadillacs, Trae got that mastered |
| And the game that I got, way flyer than NASA |
| Me and Three 6, representing for the drank sippers |
| Iced out grills, and the wood grain grippers |
| 84 swangs, and the late night tippers |
| Riding for the hood, Cadillac tight whippers |
| I got that candy red, with extra gloss |
| Heads turn, when they see me floss |
| Scooped up Trae, on a sunny day |
| Holla at Jay’Ton, and my boy Lil' Boss |
| Trunk to stay popping, and hoes stay bopping |
| Cause the swangas poking, and the blades stay chopping |
| Beat the case, but the FEDs still watching |
| In the Fed-Ex truck, right down the street plotting |
| Dropped the top, if the sun on shine |
| Sipping on some potent, puffing on pine |
| Slow Loud And Bangin', in a candy slab line |
| Down here in H-Town, it go down |
| Old school Chevies, and throwback Lacs |
| Swangas and vogues, with a trunk that crack |
| This how it goes, down here in the 3rd Coast |
| Houston Texas, at the bottom of the map baby |