Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song The Dirty 3rd, artist - Z-Ro. Date of issue: 09.10.2000
Song language: English
The Dirty 3rd |
| 24/7 and around the clock |
| I’ma keep my fingas around the Glock |
| When I bust I’ll be damned if I miss |
| Ain’t a goddamn body that’s gonna get around the shot |
| I’m the 007 of the Ridgemont 4 |
| With W double O D, E N J O L I, we come so fly |
| Don’t get it twisted I swell up eyes and I swell up jaws |
| And I split eyebrows, and I really don’t give a damn |
| When a nigga pull the trick up outta my sleeve |
| I’m introduce you to the pistol pad |
| But when I finger that hoe, and when she come it hurt |
| Whatever take yourself, or the blood gon squirt |
| Give me my money for shots disburse |
| When I lit my shots, I clear the concerts |
| Jay-Jay and the Den-Den, we gon make a mill in the end then |
| Going overseas, in the Girbauds and fresh benefits |
| Decked out to Europe in outfits, steady stacking chips |
| Slanging birds, with a pen and beat the shit out these verbs |
| Vocabulary spit nothing but words |
| Drop mo' songs, than a bird do turds |
| We runnin Excursions, no more 'Burbans, in the biggest SUV |
| Screwed Up Click is my family name, abbreviated like S.U.C |
| Cause in the Dirty Third, niggas put prices up on our heads |
| Cause our cars, be running and haunting |
| Bitches move weight, like Jenny Craig |
| Its the Dirty Third, slanging birds stacking chips |
| Quick to pull a strap, empty clips if you trip |
| Its the Dirty Third, slanging birds stacking chips |
| We killas with pistol grip, steady letting our rugas rip |
| We ain’t burning the home grown |
| The Dirty Third where I roam |
| Slanging birds flipping zones, sipping syrup out our styrofoams |
| Quick to pull a strap empty clips, if you trip |
| We killas with pistol grip, steady letting our rugas rip |
| At the peak of my game against the grain, & I’m leaving a stain |
| Piece and chain its bezeltaine, bracelets watch and pinky rings |
| Twenty inches a roll, players throwed to pull hoes |
| Serve drank by the four, blowing bud in studios |
| Its paying me fetty and cheese, triple beams and dolja green |
| Chop on blades and swang on threes, SUV’s and Humvees |
| The W double O-D, Z-Ro and Enjoli |
| He said it once befo', look at what you done to me |
| Thought it was over but it ain’t, I separate the real and the fake |
| You sugar coated bustas, you put the filling in the cake |
| I’m still balling while moving J-A-T's, SKA no AMG’s |
| In the Dirty Third we shipping ki’s and, platinum c.d.'s nigga |
| Middle finger to you hoes, and all my foes |
| I done squashed the plex so what’s next, I rose |
| From the bottom to the top, Third Coast won’t stop |
| Southsil for lil, when trunks knocking tops drop |
| And the G’s body rock, I ride to these |
| Looking good gripping wood, with a ounce of the tweed |
| Having fun in the sun, making money by the tons |
| Stacking papas pulling capas, staying sharp for the evil ones |
| So lay it down 'fore the sparks fly |
| S.U.C. |
| full of moves, niggas we on the rise |
| Hopping outta wide bodies, and it don’t stop |
| Enjoli be the queen, and you bout’s to ride (say what) |
| It be so lovely it be so nice, being twice |
| Stay blinding you hoes, six figgas and reunite |
| Moving state to state, pushing albums like weight |
| Better regulate, and still screeeeaming |