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Aight, check game playboy |
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It's like this here |
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In this motherfuckin game mayne |
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Shit ain't always gon' be gravy playboy, see |
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Thangs ain't always gon' go your way, y'knahmsayin? |
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You better take the bitter with the sweet |
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If you want to survive in these motherfuckin streets |
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But peep it doe |
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I got kind in my mackin, I started to stackin in the Valle' |
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You see I sent that bitch named, Sally |
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To the track with a big fat sack of the crack |
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And told her don't come back, until she did that |
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Cause shit was gettin funky out in the Bay |
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You couldn't find a good plug, from here to L.A. |
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Cause niggaz get sheisty and sell you bunk |
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And no scratch, but these gats, gon' equal funk |
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You cain't be no punk, get slabbed in yo' truck |
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And roll around town with the beat on pump |
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Have yo' eardrums leakin from the beatin of the series 2's |
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Bitch... I got the D-Boy Blues |
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[Chorus 2X: B-Legit] |
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The blues bitch, the blues hoe |
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I know some niggaz in my crew, that done had 'em befo' |
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I got the blues bitch, the blues hoe |
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("Stretched, I guess I got the D-Boy Blues") |
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[B-Legit] |
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My family get this call from this fool |
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Who said he knew this fool, said this fool was cool |
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Said that his daddy was a mason with a major supply |
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And I can get some thangs as long as I buy 5 |
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I really wasn't trippin cause I had the cash |
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But if it goes down funky I'ma smoke yo' ass |
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Hung up the phone and I was up, put the mill' on the tuck |
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The speakerbox in the Chevy truck |
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I'm at the spot a hundred G's, and my strap |
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I done beeped this fool twice and he ain't call back |
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Now where he at, schemin on Legit the Savage |
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Wanna wrap me up and ride away with the cabbage |
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Everybody startin to look like the FBI |
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I'm hella paranoid dude, but now I'm hella high |
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It ain't fly for this nigga from the H-I-double-L |
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With no motherfuckin dope to sell |
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[Chorus] |
|
[B-Legit] |
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I spend my last, ephedrine and some pirate's glass |
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I got my mask, whippin up some dope fast |
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Or a little {?} 57 is a rag |
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Hydronic ash shit is known to keep the fiends blastin |
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Mix together, cook it up on a Bronson burner |
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Cause that fire have you higher than that Ike Turner |
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Hours later, it's lookin good for this player |
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Oil formed and I just got my third layer |
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And if it's cool, yo' nigga yellin fuck the collar |
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Fo' times my mail, with the sales an hour |
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Jackin off my cash, buyin up hella toys |
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And all I'm fuckin with is rich-ass white boys |
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Took him out the glass but he lookin dirty white |
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Washed him off with the acetone to get him right |
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Who got a light, and when yo' nigga lit the flame |
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He'll bam-boof with the roof, and e'rythang |
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Am I to blame, fo' niggaz havin bad luck? |
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Too much dirt, is that stoppin me from comin up? |
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Well I don't know, but I'm po' and I need a few |
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Got yo' boy stressed out, I got the D-Boy Blues |
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[Chorus] |
