| strap that nigga
|
| From the M.O.B., run this shit down like
|
| From the M.O.B., run this shit down like
|
| Bitch, I’m on a mission, my destination the grave
|
| Aim my chopper to your head, then I take off your toupée
|
| Mobbin' four deep inside of a bucket, the transmission slippin'
|
| Had a conversation with the devil, told me, «Get to rippin'»
|
| It’s the Grey*59, throw your six up in the air
|
| Darkness fallin' from above, step across and, bitch, beware
|
| I’d rather die from my feet than to live up on my knees
|
| True soldier from the trenches, trappin' out the seven seas
|
| Fuck with me and get your wig pulled back
|
| Steady swervin' off a Xanax that I put inside the shack
|
| This shit is kickin' in and I just don’t know how to act
|
| My remembrance is enough, 'bout to pull a hijack
|
| Crash a plane inside of the buildin', now watch the bodies burn
|
| As the world turns, police sirens comin' but I’m not concerned
|
| Suicidal, lay my ashes inside of a gold urn
|
| Shootin' at these bustas so you know murder is what I yearn
|
| Get a call, it from my uncle, tell me, «Nephew, what you doin'?
|
| Come to M-town, we can get some money and pick up the chewin'»
|
| Ball 'til the day I fall, hundred gold spokes when I crawl
|
| Keep my back along the wall, watch another pussy fall
|
| Mind fucked up, keep the toolie like I’m Bobby, mane
|
| In the kitchen whippin' up a storm and standin' in the rain
|
| 'Til you put me in the dirt and leave my body to decay
|
| Run up, bitch you don’t wanna
|
| I keep my gun up 'til the sun up, creep on the come up
|
| I push this gat into your stomach, bitch, I’m the gunner
|
| You think you ballin', you no stunna 'cause I’m a hunter
|
| This is a stick-up, lay it down when I come around, a mask over my face
|
| Buckin' at the window, drive-by, bitches give me space
|
| I don’t need to talk to nobody 'cause all you suckas fake
|
| Bitch, you mad about the fact that your music don’t make plays
|
| Sellin' reposts, you’s a ho, I need ten to spit a flow
|
| Twenty bands up at your show, Gorilla comin' out the sko
|
| Brown paper bagged up, St. Ides sippin'
|
| Like I said in the beginning, I’m a killa on a mission
|
| Better back the fuck up 'cause shit’s about to get real
|
| Call upon the fucking devil so him and I cut a deal
|
| Searchin' for another meal, could give a fuck how you feel
|
| Bitch, you fuckin' with the wrong one, I’m 'bout to make you squeal |