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(First Degree): |
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Shit done changed, the strip got bigger |
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To make my ends |
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I got the wheel and the trigger |
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I get my swerve on with the 80 |
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P liquor The liquor bring out the nigga in this nigga |
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Got me huntin' with my musket, barred down with substance |
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Bringin' my ruckus to the rival ****as in rival clusters |
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I'm still givin' birth to perfect joints, |
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I keep it steady |
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Still mixin' up with skeet sours, |
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I like them heavy |
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Heavy'll put a little bass in your voice |
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Yamps choice, no |
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Rolls Royce but |
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I keep it moist |
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I keep it saucy, ya bossy bitch talkin' that costly shit |
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Bossy bitch think she too flossy to trip |
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I'm First mutha****in' |
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Degree, not your average, |
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I'll have your boulevard hoppin' |
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Poppin' off when a baller pack a package of suckin' |
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**** you ****in' up duck, stuck like |
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Chuck, now, now getcha dome in the trunk |
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As we donut, |
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I dump, I seen too many moons, took the minds of too many bufoons |
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Fools with no clues that love to watch my aura glisten, they still don't listen |
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I...I got pot that's hot to trot, can't stop, won't stop |
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I got Lynch |
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Hung in my backseat sniffin' for cops |
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I receipts of tweed purchase, medical purpose, write off at text time |
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So ya'll go home, light the smoke, it's relax time |
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Chorus: Now |
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I apologize for smoke on my mind |
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I been workin' hard and |
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I got to unwind |
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About the |
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J.O.A. stayin' in my brain |
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But I'm seconds away from goin' insane |
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Now I need to lift away (Lynch): |
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Now you niggas know |
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I come sick like a lunatic |
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Man, they must be high cuz they really don't know who they ****in' with |
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I used to have them all bombed out |
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Drink Alize wine, then rhyme and smoke tweeds till we dropped out |
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I got the chop out, no doubt, cuz if it ain't about rappin', gunplay's gon' happen |
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Cuz I'm tappin' at yo' window, off that |
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Indo, more sacs than |
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Santana Better check your antenna on your radio or your stereo or your video |
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Cuz I'm not that pretty, but in the bedroom |
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I'm critical |
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You got your chance, now use |
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Hit you with the |
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Loaded album, coutesty of |
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Siccmade Music |
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Evidently you got something against me |
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Don't you tempt me, minty smells of the 20 sac of |
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Indo, Killafornia's best |
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Player haters die a slow death, slow death |
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CHORUS (Ice-T): |
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I don't wear no |
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Chuck Taylors and don't sag my pants |
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But I still lift the switch and make this 64 dance |
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More niggas with me now than |
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I had in the hood |
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And they down for whatever and that's all to the good |
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Wish you would test my technique and heart, nigga what? |
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Nigga, **** that, bitch nigga what? |
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Baby, duck! |
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What you wanna do now, ya bleedin' from the floor |
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Nigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no more |
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That's how |
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I'm coming 9-6, bitch, rich and mad |
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Hoes in bikinis, rag |
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Lambroginis, overseer runnin' mad streets |
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Creepers with beepers and stash spots for glocks |
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And under car |
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Escobar style, buck wild, you been there, you know the terrain |
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Niggas go insane, tryin' to get the green |
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I'm just surviving on the streets with my peeps |
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And I'm livin' for the day |
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I catch a punk on the creep, yeah |
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CHORUS |
