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(feat. Suspicion) |
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[Lynch Talking] |
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About to leave the studio it's 9-11, 2002 |
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Up in here wid my nigga C-O once again |
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Ya know what I'm sayin? |
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And the mother****in' bad news is |
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What? Suspicion is back |
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Ya know, here we go |
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[Brotha Lynch Hung] |
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I got that spit venom shit that'll wrinkle up ya denim shit |
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**** them niggaz they all hoes I run up in them quick |
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Turn 'em into statues, lead tattoos I stay |
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Twenty four deep and bring niggaz the bad news like |
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The Metro Section I spit petrol like gas nozzles |
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Bang wid my thangs nigga, you the last models |
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From the Garden to the creep module |
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I'm off the bottle makin' money like I won the lotto |
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You wanna follow wid ya tongue stickin' out ready to lick these nuts |
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Had a dream watchin' me get out the four door to get these guts |
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I spit flames, beat niggaz like Rick James get aim |
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Cause like Pac's attraction I grip thangs |
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And it's hard and cold it'll make ya heart a cold |
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I sweat so much I'm so hot, I'm hard to hold |
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And I'll tell you somethin' else fool Suspicion for life |
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Have you comin' home from work late, missin' ya wife |
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And ya kids and ya cribs tore up, I leave ya ribs tore up |
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Nuttin' else better I do, than cut up cold cuts |
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I'm a meat eatin', skin collector been connected |
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Wid some niggaz that'll cut you in the neck and leave you butt naked |
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Layin' dead in ya Lexus, what you doing? |
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Fryin' niggaz like they do out in Texas, Why? |
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Lyin' to niggaz cause they fakin' the love |
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You be the one takin' the slug |
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And you show me that you ain't got no love for me I'm done cuz |
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[Hook] |
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Niggaz that say they real fake as **** |
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Have you left set up dead in a vacant lot |
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No matter what they can talk all that gangsta shit |
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If ya gangsta walk still ain't shit |
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I break ya loccs and run up in yO shit |
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[x2] |
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[Suspicion] |
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Look we roll shit blow shit, I been blue shit |
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Old shit new shit, keep it true shit |
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Always in a blue fit, and old school kicks |
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Posted where they move bricks if it was me quick |
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I sold shit stole shit, I had to move shit |
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Old shit new shit, to keep a few chips |
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Man my life wasn't nothin' sweet |
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At fifteen years old was livin' out on the street |
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With rocks between my teeth like where the **** I'm gon' sleep |
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Grandmomma don't want me and I ain't seen dad for weeks |
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And momma ain't never been there for me |
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It's like she probably never cared to shed a tear for me |
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So now the whole world's like a glare to me |
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Through all these hard times can barely see prepared to leave |
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But I dare one of these cats wid no haps for they fame |
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This rap's for the tracks yeh they wack but they flames |
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Tryna dirty up my name, I leave 'em stained |
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Gunshots to middle of they brain, I leave 'em drained |
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Duck cops from here to the gate, I leave 'em dazed |
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Bust shots at all of them cops this shit be crazed |
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Cause **** goin' back to that place I take the grave |
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Whether you see me go out ridin' or as a slave |
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Just look at how they got us, dealin' wid drama |
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**** it pour another shot of that Vodka load up the chopper |
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[Hook x2] |
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[Brotha Lynch Hung] |
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I'm young black shit wid mack shit |
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In the back shit make 'em do back flips |
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You must be off that crack shit |
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****in' wid the tactics got spitz like a gat spit |
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And I'm gonna rip a nigga to bits for instance |
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I burn incense and think about shit |
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I don't need your ten cents juts break 'em right quick (then what?) |
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Shake 'em right quick (then what?), make 'em bite dick |
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You suck lug nuts ya love nuts I plug stuff, cut guts up |
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Ya tough luck punk, ****in' wid flames around gas |
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Heat, enough heat to cook ya turkey fried deep like |
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Louisiana blow sacks like Santana might |
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Run up in ya spot with the dark blue bandana right |
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Wid banana clips takin' you out, run in ya house |
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Let the nine milli cum in ya mouth |
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Runnin' the South like Cash Money |
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I bang niggaz in the head you a crash dummy |
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I mash niggaz |
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[Hook x2] |