Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Wreckin' (S.L.A.B.ed), artist - Trae Tha Truth. Album song Slow, Loud and Bangin', Vol. 4, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 17.01.2004
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Grand hustle, Trae Tha Truth
Song language: English
Wreckin' (S.L.A.B.ed) |
Ah-ha, we Slow Loud And Bangin' you heard me |
You could believe that, y’all ain’t ball what we bringing this year |
We busting heads ducking FEDs, you heard me |
You better watch your broad, cause she will get tossed |
Believe that, Clue holla at your boys man |
We down here doing it just like y’all |
We bringing it man, we coming for it |
I’m dope, like a pound or ki |
Shut the fuck up, and listen to me |
Your boy bout Mack-matics, hustle game drastic |
The way I make them birds flip, like gymnastics |
Pull the duct tape and rope out, on a dope route |
23 inch rims, the boy gotta poke out |
Duck a FED, lil' one bust a head |
Get the bread all day, that’s how I play it |
Ain’t got time for that dumb shit, cousin catch a cut |
When I drop my nuts, whodi heads bust |
Spend a lot of big faces dog, in God we trust |
And if you flexing up, whacking you is a must |
Let me introduce you, to the young gunners |
In a six, top down living stunners |
I’m a pimp, game I gotta run em |
My money, bitch you ain’t getting none of that |
With a brick and tank I’m hauling that, on the way to Louisiana |
I got stangs off in Savannah, with my nigga Shot in Atlanta |
S.L.A.B. |
Slow Loud And Bangin', it’s plain to see we ain’t changing |
The block get bled wherever I’m hanging, everyday all day I’m stanging |
D-Bo and Rick in a Expedition, T.V.'s in a 2K3 edition |
Black on black tint, so niggas missing |
With a throw away Glock, that a nigga ditching |
I ain’t the nigga, that you wanna play with |
I might click, then I might start to spray shit |
Everytime I come out they cop this, cause they know they cannot stop this |
M double A-B, anytime I swang you know I’m a G |
S.U.C S-L-A-B, for life till I D-I-E |
Lil B, popped up in a six |
On a constant grind, steady hitting licks |
Riding hell-a-chrome, getting hell-a-dome |
From a thoed, Louisiana yellow bone |
With my nigga T.C., you boys really don’t want it with me |
Moving bricks, from N.O. |
to A. C |
Still repping S-L-A-B, S-L-A-B |
I be the one that’ll leave you numb, with my lil' kin folk Jay’Ton |
Dropping bombs, gripping guns |
Slow, Loud And Bangin' is number one |
But this ain’t Nelly, shots letting off through your pelly-pelly |
If you try to shortstop my feddy |
Like Archie Eversole nigga we ready we ready |
Told you boys, we was ready for war |
Like the Mafia, we above the law |
Breaking jaws doing raw, sending bullet holes through your foreign car |
Only for the pay day, running through hoes like a Texas Relay |
On the block, with Shae and the BJ |
I’m still pushing, these rhymes like weight |
Don’t get the underground twisted fool, a nigga played it |
Now they hating and hack and deleting, faggots out my bracket |
Cooly D’s on swoll, but it really feel like it inhaled some potent chronic |
Dro flows loc blows, still tracks like hop scotch |
Back off in the mix I’m in it, still I be diminishing contenders |
And I him they ass up, like suspenders |
With seven to your back, like Mario Elly |
Pop a pill-y of the X, and run it all through em really |
I be that nigga sitting thoed, through the lot |
A nigga like me, gotta bleed the block |
Your little boy Jay’Ton, gotta drop the top |
With brights and tearing, the G-Spot |
I might take a hoe to Mo, knock her down |
You know how we do it, up in the H-Town |
That’s the Down South, golds in my mouth |
I be that pimp, with hoes on a route |
Gotta get my cash, pick it up and then I hit my gas |
Burning off, like a shotgun blast |
Ready to put my foot, in your ass |
Then again, I’m in another mode |
When I’m throwing bows, on 84's |
With a yellow hoe, and a calico |
Slow Loud And Bangin' till the day I go |
(*talking*) |
Ha, sit back and feel this one |
S.L.A.B., Volume motherfucking 4 |
Trae in here hollin' at you, you know how it go |
S.U. |
motherfucking C. baby |
S-L-A-B, Guerilla Maab, South Klique |
H-Town's finest, you feel me |
Oh yeah 3-Deuce you on lock boy |
But you know I’ma hold it down for you |
S.L.A.B. |
forever, know I’m saying |
R.I.P. |
Screw-U, Mike D I see you just touched down |
Put it in they face, my nigga |
Gotta keep it gangsta, what up Carlos |
At that Top Dollar, appreciate you |
For the motherfucking instrumental |
Now they can’t stop us from making hits, ha-ha |