Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Block Bleeder (slowed), artist - Z-Ro. Date of issue: 11.08.2001
Song language: English
Block Bleeder (slowed) |
| This for all my motherfucking block bleeders |
| Fuck 9 to 5, know I’m saying |
| I’m talking to the niggas that gon survive |
| The motherfucking nine, nickels and dimes |
| Stracks, fifty pack, feel that, nigga get your paper |
| Got me pissed off frustrated, you know you outta line |
| Plus I’m trying to count you getting high, off this Alabama tie |
| Falling short of my plans, so my anger is rising |
| Let me take out I-10, while my pressure is climbing |
| I can’t mind on drank, so I’m in another mode |
| Moving way too fast, down this one way road |
| Let me catch my snap, before I roll another crap |
| And regret what I done, I been really shaft |
| Its a fact that my block, be hotter than the sun |
| You can sco' anything there, from drank to marijuana |
| And the corner, is for the stronger heart |
| Separate the men from the boys, and the weak from the smart |
| And apart, from all these hoe ass laws |
| Its a 24 no tolerance, for those that crawl |
| Through my block, you might get your busted |
| Dick in the dust, for fucking with us on my block |
| Block bleeder, surviving in the game |
| I wanna live righteous, but I need to stack change |
| I know I’m going through it, but I gotta maintain |
| Block bleeder, surviving in the game |
| My block is on fire, and I’m addicted to the flame |
| Stain after stain, know what I’m talking mayn |
| Judge me not, on what you see, nigga |
| Don’t you realize, this life of mine is killing me |
| Straight from a Christian, to a heartless killa |
| Innocent child raised by the guerillas |
| Military minded, plus I’m starving for scrilla |
| Affiliated with killas, that shermed out and tooted |
| But we don’t know no better, paper’s got our mind polluted |
| I repent for my sins, cause I know my number’s coming up |
| I’m paranoid my nigga, don’t be running up |
| Whether friends or foe, I really don’t know |
| That’s why I’m warning you Ro, you need to just |
| Back up a ski taste, or I’ll be tagging your toe |
| Since these punk ass individuals, drag my name through the mud |
| I ain’t got nothing to say to niggas, unless they after the bud |
| Pumping pack after pack, barley missing a platinum plack |
| HPD be on a nigga with no slack, I want executive money |
| The CEA, Chief Executive Artist, instead of 36 ounces |
| Pistol grip and a cartridge, a block bleeder |
| The block is hot as a clinic, but its profession to me |
| And like Juve I’m posted up, so I can watch for the sweet |
| I’ve been less fortunate, and had to hustle all my life |
| Listening to people say, its gon be alright all my life |
| I even got a lady that’s been faithful, all my life |
| She’s still my gavel, cause I can’t afford to call her my wife |
| I should be thankful that Dennison Dre, done gave me some help |
| But I’m depending on grown men, and I’m a grown man myself |
| Feeling lesser than nothing, and barely fucking with zones |
| Its like an obstacle course of dynamite, under every corner |
| I bob and weave through the hard time, my life is pain |
| From struggle where niggas fired, the reason that I record mine |
| Infrared, nigga you better protect your head |
| On my block when we kill eachother, no tears get shed |
| You take a front from a nigga, you better be quick to pay up |
| Bring his feddy back on time, or he’ll be quick to spray ya |
| Twenty Fo' seven packing a Mac 11, on my turf |
| Running away from the police, chunking evidence like a Nurf |
| I’d rather sell my own records, Chief Executive Artist |
| Instead of 36 ounces pistol grip and a cartridge, a block bleeder |