Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Gripping Grain , by - Z-Ro. Release date: 04.06.2001
Song language: English
Gripping Grain |
| Motherfucking Mo City Don bitch |
| Yeah, I know y’all hate the way we stare at y’all face |
| Rap game phenomenon, lyrically I drop bombs |
| With feddy up in my palms, and I show you why I’m the Don |
| Z-Ro the soldier, with a chip on my shoulder |
| I get you if I owe you, X your file like Scully and Mulder |
| Colder with the pen pimping thang, fuck bringing it to your ass |
| Me and that boy Den Den, gon bring it to your brain |
| Sit back get it together, take a chill really sit back |
| When I’m on swangas never hear no noise, cause them hoes don’t click-clack |
| I’m thinking thoed about to unload, on anything that don’t mind |
| Slapping patches up out your hair, better say better somebody to find |
| Straight up and down and rap flawn, these jackers ain’t on |
| That’s why I skip the slab, and I move straight to foreign |
| Everybody has collided with The Screwed Up Click |
| And when I pick up the mic and I go off, they say how he do that shit |
| I’m a mic wrecker, about to checkmate like checkers |
| A pine breasher, with 25 bags of light green on my dresser |
| Gripping grain, my screen is gonna fall like rain |
| Cause I get my-my grind and my-my shine on, I’m balling |
| Crawling in the turning lane, we tipping and we earning mayn |
| Cause we get our-our grind and our-our shine on, we hauling |
| Gripping grain on the feeter, switching lanes with Aaliyah |
| Top down low to the ground, car looking completed |
| Balling hard like Kobe, put two inches on tobe |
| Pack a seventeen shot, hope a nigga don’t provoke me |
| Cars they smoking, with herbal incent |
| Mashing horses flipping tortoise, candy up like sip |
| Beat the toll for a dolla, as I smash right under |
| On the passenger of me, riding underground under |
| I ponder in the game, passing laws gripping grain |
| Screens fall like rain, leaving puddles and stains |
| For my grind be major, hit me on two way pager |
| All my tools there’s a later, for a safe place hater |
| So when you see me in them streets, you best bow down |
| I’m gripping grain causing pain, hold it down H-Town |
| Like a king or a chief, I’m blowing endo sweets |
| Saving my change pushing my Range, starched up looking sweet |
| Twelve inches of dope, candy coat gon float |
| Got a beach house in Galveston, with woofers on bump |
| And we gon choke on smoke, and swallow drank as we sail |
| Atlantic Ocean the Pacific, man I’m making my mail |
| From selling yale to record sales, to fatten our pocket |
| Murdering motherfuckers on wax, can’t nobody can stop it |
| With the checks and a black X, and a rolex make niggas check |
| Got my nose wide open, smelling nothing but plex |
| I get deep like a dimple, complicated but simple |
| From rags to riches on these bitches, Screwed Up medallion with a symbol |
| Ain’t no mo' chains and pieces, for my nephews and nieces |
| When the record stores get empty, my ass get money increases |
| You can’t walk on my lawn, better leave my Vipor alone |
| Got a house in Sweet Water Texas, Lexus and a pond with a swan |
| They call me a swanga not a diss, I broke up on and made her bitch |
| Now affiliated on a candy coated yacht, eating on shrimp fish |
| Straight Profit, taking over and you can’t stop it |
| Cause we get our-our grind and our-our shine on, we balling |
| Crawling in the turning lane, we tipping and we earning mayn |
| Cause we get our-our grind and our-our shine on, we hauling |
| Gripping grain, grind on and my-my shine on |
| Turning lane |