| (B-Legit:) | |
| Bitch I got beam like Scotty | |
| Leave you spotty | |
| When I point this aim at your brain | |
| And leave them hollow thangs in your body | |
| Lodi-dodi I drinks Bacardi | |
| Gets dick hard drunk | |
| When I'm off that skunk punk | |
| And you don't wanna dance tingo tango | |
| I let my left right mingle mangle | |
| To your jaw southpaw | |
| It oughta be a law against these thangs I throw | |
| About to lay some shit down with Celly Cel and Bo | |
| From the Garden Blocc | |
| Hillside got they Glock | |
| Mack 10's | |
| Mobb shit'll neva end | |
| I'm tryin' to have it all | |
| So I ball 'till I'm gold | |
| Mobbin' through a sixty usin' cruise control | |
| (C-Bo:) | |
| I'm fuckin' wit that click nigga | |
| That big nigga on the block | |
| With Glocks, Rag Tops | |
| Cut thangs on them gold knocks | |
| Better watch your back 'cuz we strapped with teks | |
| Push up in a blue Lex' | |
| And dump caps to your neck | |
| Mobb shit | |
| Bustaz all die | |
| Leather trench | |
| Brim and two nines | |
| Costume of a killa | |
| At your bed side holdin' on two millas | |
| Uggh we bust them teks close range | |
| Livin' estranged | |
| Called insane | |
| 'Cuz when it's on it's on site no matter night or day | |
| And you can't fuck wit these | |
| Get smothered with a half a key | |
| Bitch | |
| (Celly Cel:) | |
| Give me the ball and I'ma fill the lane like 'Fenney | |
| Hardaway 'cuz I'm out to get every penny | |
| Any nigga disrespectin' when I'm checkin' for my scrilla | |
| I know'm stilla wig splittin' killa ain't no realla | |
| Nigga realla than me | |
| Mobbin' through your hood and takin' heads | |
| Slumpin' hangin out the windows dumpin' | |
| And shakin' 'Feds | |
| So mind your own | |
| Cross the line and see how quick they gone | |
| Head blown decapitated caught slippin' in my zone | |
| Fuckin' with this Mobb shit | |
| Niggaz get they wig split | |
| (C-Bo:) | |
| Uggh it's the murder man posted at the front door | |
| And when they comes I dumps with both four-four's | |
| Letin' 'em have it 'cuz I'm static | |
| Dumpin the grass | |
| Killed his ass | |
| And then kneel down and get my last laugh | |
| Punk bitch shouldn't have tripped | |
| Now he lay dead in the ditch | |
| Ass ripped | |
| Suckin' on his own dick | |
| Money talk | |
| Bullshit walk | |
| Fool this ain't no sunshine | |
| Three killas | |
| One garden blocc, two hillside | |
| (B-Legit:) | |
| This shit's fucked and I am tag teamin' with the murder man | |
| And that'll hurt a man | |
| Niggaz doin' dirt and | |
| All you got to do is hop your ass in my 'Cut | |
| We'll be back tomorrow mornin' | |
| Cell, you comin' or what? | |
| I got this gut feelin' | |
| About to make the killin' for a livin' | |
| The contract said the nigga wore a wire tap | |
| And they want him dead | |
| A hundred G's for his head | |
| And leave a bloody glove down where that body bled | |
| (Celly Cel:) | |
| Red rum is what I'm hummin' as I hit the fence | |
| Homicide looked for prints but found no evidence | |
| Stuffed his head in the duffel bag and zipped it up | |
| Them ballas want to see his face before they break us off a cut | |
| There it is cashed him like some chips at Reno | |
| Slid us a briefcase full of crispy ass C-Notes | |
| Made the hit | |
| Got the scrilla | |
| Gone without a trace | |
| B behind the wheel | |
| And Bo Loc cuffed to the briefcase | |
| Yo' nigga Cell got the chopper 'case they on my trail | |
| If it's a tail then I'ma leave a 50 empty shells | |
| Pistol smokin' | |
| These niggaz know we ain't no jokin' | |
| Split up the tokens | |
| And I'm back in the hood loccin' | |
| Fuckin' with this Mobb shit | |
| Niggaz get they wig split | |
| (B-Legit:) | |
| Yeah, like a real hillside strangler, yola slanger, tryin to get a buck but if I'm fucked in the gas chamber. | |
| The autopsy red, them niggaz had some heat fo yo ass. | |
| And never leave your block without your glock, clip and mask. | |
| Haters hatin but its all game related and that's what we do bitch |
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