| What uh, Southside for li'
|
| What, H-Town baby come on
|
| Watch me come through, tal’n bout what it do
|
| Hop out who-do, trunk knock with that Screw
|
| Ain’t nothing changed, see I’m still true blue
|
| Hit my licks, but I keep em on the cool huh
|
| I’m a damn fool huh, KMJ the crew
|
| Already heavy like a Cheve, bout the feddy
|
| On scrill break limits, shred rappers like confeddi
|
| Grip the damn grain, pinky ring keep it steady
|
| I’m the body rocker, represent the Southside
|
| Even when I’m high, keep that money on my mind
|
| So I grind, T on my side we gotta shine
|
| Hoes gon mind, cause they know the ice blind
|
| All the time, see I gotta wreck
|
| Cash a damn check, keep my shit up in your deck
|
| The architect designer, hustler slash rhymer
|
| Candy paint niggas, I’m the base like primer
|
| What big timer, Big Mello
|
| Big thang nigga, stack big pesos
|
| Me and Z-Ro, J and Geno
|
| On the Q track, keep the flow so thoed
|
| I’ma body rock ya, from your head to your toe
|
| Boys can’t see, Mello and Z-Ro
|
| Only at the show, late night video
|
| Hiram-Clarke/Mo City, what Mafioso
|
| Ridgemont 4 representer, niggas wonder where I went
|
| Bending corners in a Intrepid, fo' do' behind tint
|
| Making stacks upon stacks upon stacks, of B. Franklin
|
| Anybody running up on KMJ, will be stanking
|
| I might be shermed out, I might be smoking on that drizzo
|
| Anyway it go, I’m still gon put a tag on your big toe
|
| Ask Eugene, we killers with automatic machine
|
| Knocking over walls when we crawl, keeping our mug on mean
|
| If you got a sensitive side, get up out my ride
|
| Cause it’s sho to be some pistol play, probably homicide
|
| If you’s a snitch nigga bitch nigga, I’m digging your ditch
|
| Giving out dome calls, leaving everybody wigless
|
| I’m gonna, give a nigga a headstone
|
| Cause I’m after my paper, mama say go get it even though she dead and gone
|
| Smoke and dranking with alphabets, to tighten my lip
|
| With a dirty gar beam for busters, hitting em right in they hip
|
| I’m a guerilla, do anything it take to make scrilla
|
| Even if one of my own gotta fall, fuck y’all niggas
|
| I’m one of a kind, and ain’t no bitch got my mind
|
| I don’t need a relationship, as long as I got my nine
|
| Tell me the truth, why do these cats be thinking that they could be fucking
|
| with us
|
| Really though I don’t know, but they don’t wanna be running with us
|
| I’m out that Southsi' for li', for li' until I die
|
| KMJ coming up out of the storm, for real that ain’t no lie
|
| With Dougie D and Z-Ro, we making a pay to break bread
|
| If somebody fucking with Big Mello, my slug hit em in they head
|
| Ain’t no disrespecting my team, or my team’ll get aggravated
|
| All you mark ass motherfuckers better duck, or you infiltrated
|
| See I’m a Dirty South talker, philly blunt sparker
|
| Telling hoes to come on down, like Bob Barker
|
| Never been a stalker, man fuck a bitch
|
| All a bitch can do for a pimp, is make me rich
|
| Hit the switch in a mothership, with bump in the trunk
|
| I ain’t tripping on no haters, I got that pump in the trunk
|
| And I’m ready to dump, up on a bitch ass nigga
|
| Cause ain’t no Blood’n or Crip’n, cause we from Texas nigga
|
| Shit we all about, our cash flow
|
| Don’t play no games, or you’ll end up with a tag up on your big toe
|
| It’s that nigga Mello, and that nigga Ghetto
|
| Coming through your backdo', bitch what they hitting fo'
|
| Some playas, down here
|
| Don’t bring your girl, cause we hot pussy slayers down here
|
| Done hooked up with my nigga Daz Dili', from the motherfucking West
|
| Burning holes in you niggas chest, like you was smoking on some stress
|
| Or that bomb-bomb, nigga from Vietnam
|
| Nigga ring the motherfucking alarm, cause it’s on
|
| I got my nigga JJ, in a zone
|
| Nigga motherfucker, tell that bitch to bring it on
|
| I don’t know why, niggas wanna try but try
|
| But the only think I know, that your niggas’ll die
|
| If they fucking, with the KMJ click
|
| If you don’t like it, get up off the Southside dick bitch
|
| If you wonder where I’m at, this guerilla at
|
| I’m shining in your face, if you haven’t seen me yet
|
| I’m a Southsi' for li', hot girl
|
| Rocking with the Big Mello, and the Crooked Z-Ro
|
| Quick to break the hoes, off
|
| While we dropping tops, we got you dropping your mouth
|
| Cl’Che representing for the South, the Dirty South
|
| Ask that Q, these haters put em in line
|
| Big Mello above the Cl', Z-Ro on the side of Cl'
|
| So I’m telling you, ain’t none of that getting close to Cl'
|
| I play with big boys, that move them big thangs
|
| C.D.'s and LP’s, so we can get a bigger name
|
| KMJ, we gon stick to your brain like cement
|
| Glass get em Monroe, we flyer than bird shit
|
| It’s me, now tell me what you see
|
| A list mouth motherfucker, with a cold mouthpiece
|
| R.I.P. |
| to my G’s and chicks, we still swanging them do’s
|
| Candy riding on 4's, and niggas polishing they golds
|
| Down here, Southsi' for li'
|
| Houston Texas, just to make it all clear |