[Intro: Brotha Lynch Hung | G-Macc]
Ayy G-Macc, let me hit the weed, nigga
The weed, let me hit the weed (Okay. Why we hurryin'?)
There it is, right over there, nigga, right over there, look
(That's what you—, oh, okay)
I think I'ma go do that shit
Wait right here, nigga (Nigga, what you finna do?)
[Verse 1: Brotha Lynch Hung]
Spit lead out of '6-4's
In the Gardens, I'm a skitzo
.9 milli with the clip showin'
Rollin' 'round in this shit smokin'
Nobody better roll by me
Last year, it was hella bad
Started high and dropped hella fast
Crash landing, no helipad
Mamba, Kobe Bryant, in the game I'm like MJ, A.I.
Anybody wanna fuck with me, nigga, they die (They die)
Paranoid, stay high, this about to be a murder album
It's that nigga that eat up guts, you streamin' this shit, you heard about him
He don't really give a fuck about it, that nigga be on the lay-low
Y'all way dumb, he stay numb, he don't care what they say so
It's mass murder with the black burner, niggas be singin' like Nat Turner
So I roll solo, hit the road slow, creepin' like a cat burglar (Then what?)
With the lights off and the gun pointed out the window, it was real gory
If you hear the real story, it was over that merger, sir
Tryna get me for my papers
Hit 'em up, get 'em up, hit 'em up with enough lead, get away with the caper
Ayy G-Macc, let me hit the weed, nigga
The weed, let me hit the weed (Okay. Why we hurryin'?)
There it is, right over there, nigga, right over there, look
(That's what you—, oh, okay)
I think I'ma go do that shit
Wait right here, nigga (Nigga, what you finna do?)
[Verse 1: Brotha Lynch Hung]
Spit lead out of '6-4's
In the Gardens, I'm a skitzo
.9 milli with the clip showin'
Rollin' 'round in this shit smokin'
Nobody better roll by me
Last year, it was hella bad
Started high and dropped hella fast
Crash landing, no helipad
Mamba, Kobe Bryant, in the game I'm like MJ, A.I.
Anybody wanna fuck with me, nigga, they die (They die)
Paranoid, stay high, this about to be a murder album
It's that nigga that eat up guts, you streamin' this shit, you heard about him
He don't really give a fuck about it, that nigga be on the lay-low
Y'all way dumb, he stay numb, he don't care what they say so
It's mass murder with the black burner, niggas be singin' like Nat Turner
So I roll solo, hit the road slow, creepin' like a cat burglar (Then what?)
With the lights off and the gun pointed out the window, it was real gory
If you hear the real story, it was over that merger, sir
Tryna get me for my papers
Hit 'em up, get 'em up, hit 'em up with enough lead, get away with the caper
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