| N****s feel? |
| cos this shit real fam
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| Only cop work if its white, or if its real tan
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| Sixteen in the clip and one in the chamber
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| Now you hit screaming like a bitch, I thought you was gangster
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| Laid out bleeding on your kicks dog, my clap is official
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| Leave the house without your banger, that’s when they get you
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| Yo lord my third eye shine bright, blinding your sight
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| You ain’t seen this much crime in your life son
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| It’s real out in these fields, every night a n**** get killed
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| I’m outside a club waving a steel, you get your shit peeled
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| Running up on mine, just cos you got a problem with the kid
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| Get at the end of something, cos it’s a long line
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| Field boot, Carhartt brown, conceal the four pound
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| Let me know if it’s going down, we can get it on right now
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| (Let's do it)
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| Two guns up I’m wylin' 'til my days is up
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| Attacking on shit, trying to fill them cages up
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| N****s up north will blaze you in the yard, get your face cut
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| Don’t make me have to run in your cage, you fake fucks
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| Get your safe touched, I’m straight to the H2 dealer
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| To spend that cake up, then I’m murking off in that grey truck
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| Twenty fours and screens in it, watching Casino with the team in it
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| We? |
| spinners, getting high, I’m looking fly
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| Jeans cost five hundred, there’s five guns in the trunk
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| Try your luck and get fucked up, what?
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| Gucci aviator glasses, Evisu fabrics, blowing a ratchet
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| Put a hole in you bastards, for practice
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| Told you homeboy, I’m no average
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| Try to reach my status and get denied access
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| Come home on that jail shit, I’ll put a bullet in your helmet
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| Finish you will send you to hell quick word, this Street Entertainment
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| You can’t stop us dawg, what you think them choppers for?
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| (WESTSIDE GUNN)
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| I’m like sports seventy sliding coupes off the melody
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| Salam lord, still on the run from a felony
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| I sold drugs more than half my life, jewellery on
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| I make n****s wanna snatch my ice, word life
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| We got Lex coupes and Beamers over here
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| Pin trigger MACs, bulletproof ask Premier
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| Handling nines, banana hammers out son tan five
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| Incline-line Cartiers for the summertime
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| Le Tigre polos on, three Sixties in a caesar
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| Big Cuban links looking like we crazy on
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| Medallion swing, you’re peepin' 'em lord
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| Breathing through a ski-mask, killing my own peoples to get cash
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| Fuck 'em, ride through your 'hood in a Beamer wag' yo
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| Keep the upstate style, fuck Cristal, we drink Henny straight
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| And turn Sly Green wild, million dollar deals on tables
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| Canary face Jesus, swinging off a rose-gold cable
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| Politickin' on OT money, I think Ohio next
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| Cutter just crashed the E-Class, I think I drive the Lex
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| Rolex money since eighteen
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| Having model bitches titties out while they cooking up burn clean
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| Trump Plaza,? |
| Evisu sagger
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| Doing in your Birk' handbagger, crack bags filled with fishscale
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| I do twenty-five to life, as long as I’m rich in jail, A-yo
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| I hold an automatic, these streets where I’m from it’s heartless
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| Plus I like big jewels, and y’all n****s starving
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| Le Roy ?, throwing money out a Porsche
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| Colourful stones watching Al Capone getting tortured
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| Drug dealers, cash rule n**** we the illest alive
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| A bunch of fly killers holding up nines
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| I’m used to, standing on the block all day with dimes
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| Salute to blowing up and pushing Q45s
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| Peace lord, Bentley is all, take the ARs on tour
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| And? |
| see the? |
| for pure, big chains on just bravado I ain’t a God
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| Since the days with the four, loaded MAC just in case it turned war
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| Body died forty shots and I’m look at the board
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| Since that thirty dollar double-up hustling in front of the store
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| Word boot in your door, Jesus piece flooded galore
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| Chrome eight-hundred shot his whole face off |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song '08 Shit, artist - Westside Gunn. Album song Flyest Nigga In Charge, Vol. 1, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп