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(feat. Bluechip, JT) |
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(JT) |
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Another G-Man Stan production |
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The originator of this 808 shit in the Bay area |
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You got your boy JT the Bigga Figga |
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Thuggin it out with my young nigga the Game, and my homey Bluechip |
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Blacksox, oh boy! Hooked up with Get Low Records |
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Puttin this shit together, my nigga |
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It ain't a nigga in the game that could hold me down |
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I've been independent forever so they know me now |
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And I'm the cat they gotta find when they wanna get signed |
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You wanna get your paper right you gotta study my grind |
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I'm like Rush in "Krush Groove," a nigga that bust moves |
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Right out, and tuck tools, bullets that bust dudes |
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Ain't no beef in the briefcase, just beef for Pete's sake |
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We round up cats, to beat 'em in a street race |
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We count paper up, to make a nigga change his plans |
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They under weight so they ain't gettin off they gram |
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You mad at my boys, cause we choppin 'em in |
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They make twenty then the Fig want 10 |
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That's the rules that the Get Low, play by |
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The block boys stay high, California stock with K-5 |
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It's the rules that the Get Low play by |
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Them block boys stay high, the California K-5 |
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(Chorus: The Game) |
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Huh, it's the Blacksox doin a joint together |
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The whole world stoppin to listen, ol' breakers poplockin to this |
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And white boys headboppin in 6's, niggaz boxin in prison |
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Shit bang hard like a conjugal visit |
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And the game ain't big enough for niggaz so move over |
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Matter fact, move out, we takin over |
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Them boys is comin, and they aimin straight for the neck |
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The B-L-A, C-K, S-O-X |
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(Bluechip) |
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Yo, yo, well it's the B dot L dot, you know the rest |
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Wanted by the feds, hated by the ATF |
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You can catch me at the DuPont Inn, two dykes swallowin gin |
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Shorty sucked me out of my Timbs |
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My bad, that's your wife? Fuck your life |
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Anyway I heard you workin for vice |
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You ain't real man you hide behind ice |
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Youse a impostor, snatch him off the roster |
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Always live by the rule, get dough, or die tryin |
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Hardcoded into shinin |
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Pass the bucket now I'm back on bet it |
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If, beef was erased man my tool gon' finish |
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Never been the loudmouth type |
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Sugar Shane of this rap shit, southpaw when the mac spit |
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Listen rookie, don't make me mad boy |
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Or you gon' be like Big, a dead (Bad Boy) |
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(Chorus) |
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(The Game) |
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Huh, niggaz think they got the game sewed, yeah right |
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I'm air tight, fresh in them Air Nikes |
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If the Navi outside, I might be there |
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Black hoodie, black 9, black wifey airs |
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Rock guns like Caddy trunks, keep a spare |
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You see the lump under the Iceberg fleece and gear |
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And when the beef cook, I'ma put the piece to your head |
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And if you see a white truck that mean yo' sheets is dead |
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Then I'm goin goin, back back |
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To the block to dump the bucket and jump in the drop |
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Niggaz know I'm good with the glock, they call me Chick Hearns |
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Cause if the game on knot, I'm callin the shots |
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I'll wear a shiny suit for a minute like I'm The LOX |
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Then get gangster with a swap meet bag and a Jordan box |
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And when I die, bury me with the glock, and a bucket of shells |
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In case niggaz want drama in hell |
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(Chorus) |
