Lyrics All My Nggz - Lone Star Ridaz

All my niggz, get yo hustle on (get yo hustle on)
And all police, needa leave us alone (needa leave us alone)
See, I don't give a fuck, and I don't play no games (and I don't play no games)
Cuz all my niggz, they bout havin thangs (they bout havin thangs)

Nasty hoes, and goofy niggas
Everybody tryin they best to get wit us
Ruthless friends, and a crazy family
Niggas try to sue me for assault and battery
Crooked judges and expensive lawyers, I'm surrounded
By muthafuckin news reporters
Cocaine snorters and drug importers
If I leave the city, I break my court orders
Was a kick door burglar, and teenage murderer
My house be filled up with dope fiends furniture
Mathematical, attack like animal
In my new whip, bangin Barry Manilo
Totally radical, my flow is magical
She don't suck dick, then we ain't compatible
Quick to shoot, foo, then go to his funeral
Sippin pharmaceutical, I feel so beautiful

You see mi vida be closed captioned (uh-huh)
Been runnin wild (yeah)
Addicted to them streets, my criminal lifestyle
A juvenile delinquent got no fuckin manners
Smokin weed till my eyes bleed (gettin drunk and crashin)
I swear my family tree, got roots that be rotten
If you dare to step on my block proceed with caution (uh-huh)
You see we all loc.s (yeah) clicked up we all folks
Slangin stolen merchandise crank sherm and coke
Quick to blast shit I catch as good as skank nothing
With the big black whip they at the po po service
No second chance, when you dance with death
As your body gets cold with hot slugs in your chest
Merciless, no remorse, no pity,
See I come from a city where attitudes be shitty
And nothin worse in this world, than a vato that's broke (uh-huh)
Mad at the world and got nothing to smoke

Maan with so much drama poppin on my sets
It's kinda hard bein that nigga M-A-X, but I
Somehow still run my shit so proper
You can spin this till your fingers turn the color or copper
Keep a soviet chopper, layin across my dresser
The outlaw ain't crackin under police pressure
So, I'm wit whatever that's gon keep my shit flippin
Me and Hap. thug together like Gore and Bill Clinton
From the streets gettin smoked out and syrup on sippin
Cookin more hoe chickens than Popeye's kitchen
My old lady bitchin and for 17 minutes
I'm in the muthafuckin game, y'all niggas still in the scrimmage
That boy young Minelli keep a hustlers image
Nice piece and chain, hundred fifty dollar tenis
With drag and strings, pants saggin man
Cuz them niggas on my block bout havin thangs