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Текст песни Brotha Lynch Hung - Secondz a Way

Brotha Lynch Hung - Secondz a Way слова песни




(first degree):Shit done changed, the strip got biggerTo make my ends I got the wheel and the triggerI get my swerve on with the 80 p liquorThe liquor bring out the nigga in this niggaGot me huntin with my musket, barred down with substanceBringin my ruckus to the rival fuckas in rival clustersIm still givin birth to perfect joints, I keep it steadyStill mixin up with skeet sours, I like them heavyHeavyll put a little bass in your voiceYamps choice, no rolls royce but I keep it moistI keep it saucy, ya bossy bitch talkin that costly shitBossy bitch think she too flossy to tripIm first muthafuckin degree, not your average,Ill have your boulevard hoppinPoppin off when a baller pack a package of suckinFuck you fuckin up duck, stuck like chuck, now, now getcha dome in the trunkAs we donut, I dump, I seen too many moons, took the minds of too many bufoonsFools with no clues that love to watch my aura glisten,They still dont listenI...i got pot thats hot to trot, cant stop, wont stopI got lynch hung in my backseat sniffin for copsI receipts of tweed purchase, medical purpose, write off at text timeSo yall go home, light the smoke, its relax timeChorus:Now I apologize for smoke on my mindI been workin hard and I got to unwindAbout the j.o.a. stayin in my brainBut Im seconds away from goin insaneNow I need to lift away(lynch):Now you niggas know I come sick like a lunaticMan, they must be high cuz they really dont know who they fuckin withI used to have them all bombed outDrink alize wine, then rhyme and smoke tweeds till we dropped outI got the chop out, no doubt,Cuz if it aint about rappin, gunplays gon happenCuz Im tappin at yo window, off that indo, more sacs than santanaBetter check your antenna on your radio or your stereo or your videoCuz Im not that pretty, but in the bedroom Im criticalYou got your chance, now useHit you with the loaded album, coutesty of siccmade musicEvidently you got something against meDont you tempt me, minty smells of the 20 sac of indo, killafornias bestPlayer haters die a slow death, slow deathChorus(ice-t):I dont wear no chuck taylors and dont sag my pantsBut I still lift the switch and make this 64 danceMore niggas with me now than I had in the hoodAnd they down for whatever and thats all to the goodWish you would test my technique and heart, nigga what? Nigga, fuck that, bitch nigga what? baby, duck!What you wanna do now, ya bleedin from the floorNigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no moreThats how Im coming 9-6, bitch, rich and madHoes in bikinis, rag lambroginis, overseer runnin mad streetsCreepers with beepers and stash spots for glocksAnd under car escobar style, buck wild, you been there, you know the terrainNiggas go insane, tryin to get the greenIm just surviving on the streets with my peepsAnd Im livin for the day I catch a punk on the creep, yeahChorus

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