Is he the black messiah is he another four years of bush I hate wasting time talking about politicians But is there any other way Johnny lost his home
It's been a while since I've tried to write a song about a girl so here it goes I write with clumsy words I see the sparks that fly are reasons to consider
What was I thinking All of theses years gone by yet I still try for nothing Where do we go Where is the scene we all believed in I'm trying to remember
wanna know voodoo A fat bitch named Bridget and a little sip of Faygo too 'Til I get my shit, in this mothafucka I will never die So anyway, fifty years
, stop it Whether plugged in or plugged out Iron drill mugged or thugged out Blood in or blood out, son was bugged out Might look at you and slice you Buck fifty
Maalox and Castor oil of toxic waste Your area's vacant with where house aroma Cat turds and horse drops your face went into a coma Exterminating houses, with fifty
, 45.'s Six, seven, eight, nine milli-meter Ten, eleven, twelve gauge pump nigga One, two, three, 45.'s Six, seven, eight, nine milli-meter Ten, eleven
front row, I ain't watchin' the fight I be in Street Port wit' my nigga, Bayday I be in airports wit' my fuckin' AK Four seven to eleven, one eight seven
paged me Wanna know if b-legit can kick it tonight Only sixteen, way too tight But age ain't nothin' but a number Baby got her hair done by shanda Nine nine ten, eleven
, word up, as we splash you like this Walk wit a didi bop ock, you silly pop, Jiffy Pop Fuck around son, I'll blow ya face up with fifty shots Sharp
way Take that night train to Memphis Take that night train to Memphis You know how I'm longing to see you Leave at three-fifty-seven And arrive at eleven
-yard Where mega-hard arms swingin' metal palms iron skin leopard Holding evil metal eagle attach the desert, paranoid fingertips Stitched with three-fifty plus seven
'm in debt with Christ, I done did that twice I'm nice, y'all niggas can't hang wit fifty Blaaat, y'all niggas can't bang wit fifty Say I'm born to rhyme
was meant to be He might send for you, before he send for me Gun-butt you with the back of the baretta The three-fifty-seven or, the black mac-eleven
then from that, I learned my lesson And clean my act up and go straight to perfection Uncle La got knocked the feds hit it with seven And left me with the fifty cal and a mac eleven
who rap Pure euphoria, a dose of death to all of ya Coroner choruses sung from The Bridge to Astoria Dreams of fallin' in the elevator, passin' floors
shit nigga triplin some shit, nigga flippin some shit You got some yayo, give it here I triple that shit for only fifty percent See bitch I be like Seven-Eleven
