(bustin and runnin)
i hear a siren you know what that means, the boys in blue is on the way. and people duckin in and out to find a safe place to hideout, but not me i’m standin in full view of the street steady waitin on the police, thankin them for catchin me their attempts to trap me are useless, and the army of dead i command are forma ruthless.
(and your s.w.a.t team with snipers on every roof top scopin)
and the team leader barkin out orders to throw the smoke in
you knoe that you gonna b*mp it like aaliyah said im 1 in a million and sometimes you cant comprehend the sh*t i’m feelin
(but thats ok, i’m reloadin)
and fully prepared to bust ya skull open. got you stripped down like a b*tch at the bar searchin fo tips. all be dis got the shakes cuz you cant afford a hit. i’m a g in every sense of the word so my game is soldier so i match the motha f**kin pigs like a jelly donut.
look out the police is comin, got me runnin through the crack house bustin and runnin.
look out, cuz i dont wanna get sprayed ya better lay it down fo yo *ss get destroyed
(i gotta blunt in my right hand a gun in my left takin shots at the cops either jail or death im already dead you cant kill me and i aint goin to the pen, b*tches come run me)
i jumped in the caddy on the way to the dope house, i see the red and blue hold-up time out who they f**kin wit, im a g wit a trunk full of dope and heavy artillery
(pull your vehicle to the side of the road)
oh yall think im playin well ya’ll just don know better run the plate check who you f**kin wit or get found on the sidea the road in a ditch, east side b*tch boy what the f**k you thought quit f**kin wit these killas we’ll blow ya head off we some hustlas tryna get rich quick. get money wit the boss and comp for old sh*t. motha f**ka for real i’m just lettin you know, f**k wit a dead man its yo funeral. so when you pull up on a g wit a hatchet in the window take yo *ss to the coffee shop b*tch *ss po po.
why you still followin me i get w2 to pay my taxes you gonna make a motha f**ka have some relapses. th red, white, and blues have been known to set me off and you about to fall victim to the molatov (c*cktail). the smell is foul and overwhelming of you burnin in ya cruiser and ya lights is meltin, why cant i be dead, have a b*tch, and enjoy dealin without one a yall motha f**kas botherin me, callin me a sinner, but i’m not im the dead body from the block. and aint n*body on there pushin rocks. i’m a grown up but not in the sense that you accustom, i graduate from the 22’s to the 9’s that im bustin. at you i empty the clip on the cops who testin and leave em lyin dead in the intersection. you want beef you got it homeboy its what im servin, take the safety off your gun cuz i know that your nervous.
(i gotta blunt in my right hand a gun in my left takin shots at the cops either jail or death im already dead you cant kill me and i aint goin to the pen, b*tches come run me