[Verse 1: Styles P]
Holiday Styles
Bitch, I get you shot in the head or shot in the neck
If I ain't gettin proper respect
I don't care if you rap, I still spit in your grill
I don't give a fuck, never have, never will
If it ain't on your hip, then you're lookin to die
I ain't tryin to be the nigga that's gonna look at the sky
Ask God why I'm broke, bitch, I'm cooking the pie
We all gon' die, sooner or later, matter of time
My niggas sell crack, with a package of dimes
Hundred or more, in front of the store, waitin to bubble
Brand new nine, and an eight in a bubble
I put sixteen above ya neck, I love my set
Niggas think they a thug, then thug to death (uh-huh)
Cause the P gonna squeeze 'til no slugs is left (what)
You know I'm good with a hundred of 'dro, gun and an O
You think your shit butter? Hop in front of this toast
[Verse 2: Sheek Louch]
Yo, ayo, ayo
I say what I want, fuck what y'all think is cool
And I hate cops, cause most y'all was dicks in school
No pussy gettin niggas tryin to cuff the God
Play Sheek out in the yard, but that shit too hard
My dough too long, nowadays, my flow too strong
What y'all make in a year, I kick that for a song
Check my car, I don't care, I don't play fair
Keep some shit in the stash box, then get me the chair
And it don't buck shot and the blast is hard to hear
I'm a true thug nigga, bring it straight to your crew
Why I don't yell when I rap, I'm basically talkin to you
You see the pain in my eye? Nigga, the flame in my eye?
I'm tryin to leave my kids some real fuckin change when I die
From rappin or tellin some cat to reach for the sky
I'm that hunt down nigga, with the four pound nigga
Bounty hunt your whole crew til my bullets go through, WHAT?
Holiday Styles
Bitch, I get you shot in the head or shot in the neck
If I ain't gettin proper respect
I don't care if you rap, I still spit in your grill
I don't give a fuck, never have, never will
If it ain't on your hip, then you're lookin to die
I ain't tryin to be the nigga that's gonna look at the sky
Ask God why I'm broke, bitch, I'm cooking the pie
We all gon' die, sooner or later, matter of time
My niggas sell crack, with a package of dimes
Hundred or more, in front of the store, waitin to bubble
Brand new nine, and an eight in a bubble
I put sixteen above ya neck, I love my set
Niggas think they a thug, then thug to death (uh-huh)
Cause the P gonna squeeze 'til no slugs is left (what)
You know I'm good with a hundred of 'dro, gun and an O
You think your shit butter? Hop in front of this toast
[Verse 2: Sheek Louch]
Yo, ayo, ayo
I say what I want, fuck what y'all think is cool
And I hate cops, cause most y'all was dicks in school
No pussy gettin niggas tryin to cuff the God
Play Sheek out in the yard, but that shit too hard
My dough too long, nowadays, my flow too strong
What y'all make in a year, I kick that for a song
Check my car, I don't care, I don't play fair
Keep some shit in the stash box, then get me the chair
And it don't buck shot and the blast is hard to hear
I'm a true thug nigga, bring it straight to your crew
Why I don't yell when I rap, I'm basically talkin to you
You see the pain in my eye? Nigga, the flame in my eye?
I'm tryin to leave my kids some real fuckin change when I die
From rappin or tellin some cat to reach for the sky
I'm that hunt down nigga, with the four pound nigga
Bounty hunt your whole crew til my bullets go through, WHAT?
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