| Paroles: | For the love of money.
Gotta make that money, man.
That money, man.
It's still the
same, now.
Flesh:
Gotta get on the grind, pop in the clip of my nine, and bitch if
you slip, you hit the chalk and fall in the nighttime. Gotta get mine,
ain't takin' no shorts
or no losses. Hop on the phone, callin' my nigga, Sin, at home, polishin' the MAC-1O chrome. Gotta
lick
we can hit, so bring your shit, 'cause once again, it's on. To the dome with a fifth of
(burb), my wig to the curb, so we swerve
and rolled out to pick up the triple-six thug and
follow the murder for robbin' the dopehouse. Smoke jump outta me bong, so
high, now comin' to
slay with four grenades and a gauge. I'm a play, watch all 'em fall in the grave and lay. Pullin' in
the
driveway, Wish spotted the place and quickly rolled up. Bulldozed through the living room,
hopped out of the car, and started
to blow up. Buck, buck, and a kabloom, me blew all them
bodies all over the room. Them doomed. And gotta move fast,
why? The po-po's comin'. Snatch up
me yummy, so nigga, don't think it's funny. I'm comin' up quick in the nine-quat, 'cause
Flesh
be lovin' this money, this money.
Layzie:
I'm givin' up love to the hustlas, all them
St.Clair thugstas, makin' that money, stayin' on your feet. And you better believe gotta
have
that cheese for the green leaves, never catch me sleep. Stay on the grind, get mine, stayin' down
for my crime, and I hit
up the nine nine, givin' up that 1lello, makin' me sale--twenties,
nickels and dimes. Beat up and stick up a lick up, that
two-eleven, gotta get what's mine, then
bailin'. Me kickin' up dust, I'm trailin', feelin' one-eight-seven. That's how it is, and I
gotsta h |
