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(Lynch): |
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Now on my briefcase was some crumbled weed |
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A pack of Saravegas and a 24 ounce O.E. |
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Might as well skeez these couple of hoes |
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In my 69 Malibu sittin' on trues and vogues |
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For days you might have seen me in my cinnamon cut chrome shoes |
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With some you can't see me tint on the windows Indo syndrome |
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Smokin' it up, not givin' a mutha****in' fizuck |
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Sold the cut, my ex-hoe said that nigga's sqautin' what? |
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Got at the homie Carl, and got some of that bomb |
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Had me so ****in' high I got off like Vietnam |
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Dead bodies and bitches clits simmerin' in the crock pot |
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And the shit don't stop until my mutha****in' chronic or high drop |
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It's just that insane type of thang, let the Mac rain guts in the drain |
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Siccmade niggas they make the world go round |
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And if you **** with Siccmade Music you can get your ass gunned down |
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(Phonk Beta): |
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I had a homie who stayed up in Alaska, used to transfer flights over Nebraska |
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And flew me back about a ounce of that Alaska Indica weed |
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And out of the whole zip possessed one seed |
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Had it wrapped real tight all up in cellophane |
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Can't have the K-9 dogs smell it, man |
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If only you saw what I was seein', the buds was almost pure white, not green |
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Had to be one of those one hitter quitter dome splitters |
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That's the type a tweed that makes you wanna **** your baby-sitter |
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I roll a fattie, when I roll this fattie |
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Niggas'll be all noid wonderin' why they lookin at me |
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Bitches have the nerve to say my shit ain't bomb |
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But it'll have your lungs burnin', like your puffin' on napalm |
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(Zagg): |
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I wipe that sweat up off my forehead, I'm off the cusche |
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Lay back and take a comfortable hit, with a Q-tip, it's splittin' my lips |
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And my dome stays split off toothpicks |
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I hit a lick with a quickness, dumpin' dead bodies in ditches |
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Appreciate the fact, come correct, cuz I could be vicious |
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Suspicion, comin' up on recognition I'm creepin' up from behind |
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With a 12 gauge, non-fiction, I'm all prepared to go for mine |
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So step in line, a couple of hits, dome split, I be lit on a for real base |
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With a machete I'll slice your neck just like them Jason cases |
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Murder traces, but I ain't pinned cuz there's no evidence |
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Slight scent of that purple cusche plant, and I can almost sense the essence |
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What's the lesson? Get tested, don't come if you can't come correct |
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It's that West Coast shit for life I don't know what you expected |
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I'm reckless, nevertheless I'm a pimp in a bulletproof vest |
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Puttin' it down, pound for pound, you need to take a step down |
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50 caliber rounds, I'm runnin' through your whole town |
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Buckin' em down like Doom set on deathmatch with the BFG-9000 cartoon |
