| Paroles: | Layzie:
Creepin' up outta the woods, gotta give love to my hood. Smoke, and I choke, and I
creep on a come up. Niggas be tryin run
up, but I bust, and they drop to their death. Now
they done up. Gun up, hunt my blunt up. Creepin' 'til sun up, feelin' slightly
shady. Call
me lightweight crazy, number one nigga little Layzie. Nigga don't wanna fight, runnin' deadly
thugsta soldiers,
droppin' them thangs. Bone done told ya. Testin' nuts, so a nigga gonna
have to show ya. Faded a nigga that stepped up.
Let's slip in some shit. See 'em alls just
stood up then put a foot up that ass, had to blast that click-click. Sprayed the
gauge, all
cocked, and ready to spray down to the pave. Puttin' them souls up off in them graves, dwell in
Hell, they'll all lay
slayed. Amazed, must I blaze. It's insane when I take that bud to the
brain. Toke, choke, holdin' me smoke until-a me
strained, feelin' no pain. Better be packin'
your weapon, 'cause my shit is kept and I'm ready to let loose sawed-off hangin',
danglin'
up under the trench, fin to blow that chest, but you shoulda wore a vest, fool, 'cause the Bone
don't front. Nigga check
or get wrecked. Got Flesh on the set, with his finger on a TEC,
loc'd out with the khakis and high techs. Respect them St.
Clair thugs hustlin' drugs, gotta
make that money, man. Rap be the thang, and the fact remains that we owns that rap game.
Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thang.
Bone be me gang.
Flesh:
We runnin' with no hoes, and the bigger Bone that's known for gettin' his swerve on and
kickin' it on the stage. (Off in the rag),
gettin' my serve on. So, leave 'em alone. They
come. They need to be shown that Bone done chrome, blown, lay slugs up in
to them domes, so
go on. You'd rather go run a ho check, if you wanna test nuts with Flesh, I'm feelin' to lynch ya,
mo murda.
You're runnin' up eye to eye with death. Praise the Flesh, now nevertheless you're
takin' a loss, and this slug snuffed up, and
dumpin' the body up off in a coffin. Remember
the vow said a preacher, me teach 'em, (winnin'/greetin') 'em with me nine,
runnin' with
thugs and hustlas and murderin' 'em every time.
Bang, bang, gotta get down for my
thang.
Bone be me gang.
Bizzy:
Remember the Ripsta, sinster creeper,
reapin' up that set with a street-sweeper. Gotta take a breather from sippin' me liter.
Rippin' that flesh when I sneak with a meat cleaver. When I'm in me smug, never the studio thugsta.
Buck 'em. Buck 'em.
Motherfuck 'em. Thug never done bluff and fuck them bustas. So back up
off me. No stack won't let me slip. When a nigga
start to step, the weapon, put 'em in the
graveyard. Bitch, better buy your vest, then test Rest, the Ripsta, quick to pick up the
hollow points and put 'em up in your brains, nigga. My little nigga, Mo! Hart, my bigger nigga, Sin,
dash fast, get up with the
block at last blast they ass, pass cash, then stash, me can killa
for free for homies and family. Tell 'em to see me, that realer
nigga, the Ripsta, put 'em
in rivers. It don't stop. Drop P's to the SCT's and double glock. Pop. Pop. Here's the slug from
the twelve gauge thug. You don't want fuck with, no buck with, Rip's breakin' 'em bustas.
Blood, me fillin' 'em (...?...) me
murder. I show no mercy. Turn your back, clack back me
gat, diggin' 'em in the dirt, see.
Krayzie:
Get ready to duck, bitch, or get
fucked up. They never could fuck with me sawed-off pump. Bitch, if I'm flippin' or load my
clip in, nigga, y'all all fucked. Gotta make my money, slippin' me pump in my trench, and then click
it. Now, nigga, it's rippin',
steady clippin', not missin', thuggin' with me click, and now
Leatherface takin' your life so ya best stay back, tossin' the rest in a
coffin, 'cause
niggas be runnin' up, talkin' trash. Buck a guard while walkin' past. Bang, bang, gotta get down for
my thangs,
and I claim and hang with Ts, niggas that make cheese for the green leaves. Gotta
give peace, 'cause they swang these. Come,
nigga, meet my hood and fulla nothin' but thugs
and hustlas: Sin never been no busta, he'll stuff and buck-buck 'em and dump
'em, bitch.
Nigga, muthafuck 'em, Krayzie don't love 'em, put 'em to rest and run, so the po-po don't catch
up--nigga can't be
arrested. One M-11 me sendin' niggas to hell, and you're feelin' 187.
Eleven dwellin' better from the cell, and nigga that pick
up Mossberg, the quicker you to
the curb. Put one to the temple, pump, to Mr. Policeman. That's all you heard.
Bang,
bang, gotta get down for my thang.
Bone be me gang.
Bang, bang, bang, bang |
