| Paroles: | All:
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.
Tony Tone:
If you're down to glide and
slide on the Clair, then let's ride.
Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you
come just
bring your guns with ya.
If your a busta niggas gon' have fun with ya.
So,
nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang them thangs, bang
some brains, slangin'
llello.
It all remains the same.
Wish:
Step and you're catchin' some
buckshots.
Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock.
Mo Thug, what's up?
Nigga, get
drug, put 'em in the mud, pop and I can't stop, now.
Niggas that I thug with kill.
Pop to
the chest.
How does it feel?
And nigga we peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked
back.
Killin', I'm buckin' 'em down.
I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch.
Nigga, don't test my hood.
Tombstone:
A first degree murderin' wig
splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch,
puttin' a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't
fuck with them
niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin'
the crime and
murderin' every time.
Niggas beware, 'cause here come the Clair mobbin' like some
soldiers.
Watch me fold ya for actin' like somebody never told ya.
So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that
nine shot, givin' props to the double
glock.
Flesh:
Pump, pump, when I let my shells down.
Hit a lick, now gimme the
goodies, and nigga me dash.
I reach for the gauge and mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and
blast.
Nigga, don't test nuts.
Your luck's fucked.
Your feelin' wrath of the
Boneyard, thuggin' off with the Graveyard
Shift, then comin' up for your ho card,
bitch.
Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin' them chop chops.
We rippin' them
guts with buckshots, pop, pop.
Me give up shots out to the
glock-glock.
Krayzie:
You better believe that we runnin' this thug
style:
Krayzie, Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, them wicked, now.
We straight off the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now.
East 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we
thug on the darkside.
Better have your pop, niggas be trippin' and flippin' as soon they
get
high. One-eighty-seven, you're caught in a murder.
Niggas up to no good. Po-po.
Fuck no.
They never could fuck with a thug-ho.
Pop, pop, givin' up shots to the
double-glock, glock.
Mo! Hart:
Nothin' but them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin'
bucks of lead,
and (Clair thugs) gaugin' pump eruptions, nickel trip and shut and
fuck 'em
down, buckin' them coppers down, round after round after
round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded
on the ground.
Ain't no sound, just the demons screamin', "Rest in peace.
I guess you got
to suffer."
Ready to dip, hollow point tip, got your wig split, and made your
body
rupture, hunt my victims on a mission, flippin', livin' on a
darker side, creepin' on your
homicide.
Let my nuts and my gauge hang low.
Now, walk on by.
All:
[Boogy
Nikke on the mic, right.]
Boogy Nikke:
Thuggin' through my thuggish-ass hood at
night with my pipe.
Thuggin' down the double-glock, tryin' to get my serve on, watchin'
my
back while six-five try to roll on.
But one to the sucka's head, and two up in his
body.
Now peep my creep.
I keep the reefer smoke all up inside
me.
Layzie:
We jumpin' up out from the hood.
We bailin'. We thuggin'. We
lookin' like crooks.
The terror be fatal, ready to roll, now we willing and able,
rollin'
with Ruthless, bitch, better check my label.
Murdered them, never come again where
the scandalous niggas settle.
Bloody nigga, trues be on my level.
Eighty-eight through the
ten-five is the soldiers' ghetto.
Nigga, don't take the wrong turn; you will enter the hood,
and we're
splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and
hustlas
roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg Pound home, it's on.
Sin:
Never get in the mix
of a Clair player; you're liable to get your wig
split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, 'cause
them thugs sendin' them
slugs, leavin' 'em off in the cut in a puddle of blood, say
what?
Don't make me go in my trench.
Nigga, ya got me bent, all fucked up.
Your
luck's up.
Now you gotta get sent to your gravesite as John Doe for fuckin'
with
those...
Gates:
It's them thugs runnin' amuck all night, but a slug up in
you.
The territory never divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck.
So where you at?
Where you at?
I'm strapped and ready to snap and yank a nigga's neck back.
Split them
(Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair to
tear a
round) 'fore somebody gets stuck.
You still won't want some, bitch, but what the
muthafuck?
I wanna one to whammy with a TEC-9.
Now, bitch, press your luck |
