paroles de chanson Smith Brothers - Ghostface Killah feat. Trife
Uh
huh,
ready
bags,
ready
bags
This
is
that
motherfuckin'
nigga
Yeah,
uh,
bulletproof
muthafuckin'
gooses
outdoors
For
all
the
streets,
all
the
dusts
in
the
streets
Crusty
projects
and
all
that,
the
radiators
is
bulletproof
Yo,
yo,
come
on,
ah
yo
yo
What
up
cousin,
this
is
most
high
wizardry
Gots
to
watch
niggaz,
so
I
stay
on
my
grizzly
(uh)
These
young
boys
comin'
at
me
(yeah)
Lookin'
at
these
faggots,
like
yeah,
you
get
amped
off
of
Pepsi
Damn,
what
kind
of
cards
you
delt
Does
your
elevator
go
up?
(Nope)
You
ain't
rap
too
tight
Right,
you
can
tell
me,
G-H
to
O-S-T
Two
hundred
Bees'll
get
you
killed
by
coke
head
Skeet
This
is
murder,
you
can
get
it,
if
my
fam
don't
eat
And,
we
slam
niggaz,
like
we
Lil'
Malik
We
want
that
Powerball
money,
Easter
bunnies,
Wool-light
money
Hey
dunny,
we
rock
a
half
of
mill
and
look
bummy
And
bounce
to
the
projects,
pop
Becks,
cop
Tec's
Top
wrecks,
execs
got
next,
what
the
heck
Arm
fed,
you'se
dead,
that's
said,
no
more
wet
The
cameras
is
rollin',
bitch,
quiet
on
the
set
You
can
never
front
on,
jump
or
you
get
lumped
on
Burners
in
your
face,
don't
you
get
nervous
on
me
We
got
so
many
gats,
and
them
big
Mac's
Somebody
get
the
boy,
I
get
the
wilin'
on
black
Tell
'em,
we
will,
we
will,
rock
you,
pop
you
We
will,
we
still,
got
you,
got
you
Aiyo
aiyo,
it
ain't
a
game
This
kid
is
serious
about
his
change
Ya'll
a
bunch
of
wacko
jacko's,
amped
off
your
names
Call
me
Sugar
Ray,
the
way
I
dance
on
you
lames
My
right
hand'll
sting
you
and
ding
you,
leave
stamps
on
your
brain
I
got,
out
of
state
of
niggaz
that'll
kill
for
beers
Cut
you,
easy
to
pop
like
balloons
filled
with
air
I
dare
ya'll
faggot
asses,
punch
niggaz
with
glasses
Back
in
my
third
grade
classes,
squeezin'
asses
My
niggaz
is
never
over,
understand
I'm
a
2Pac,
this
is
the
realest
shit
I
ever
wrote
But
it's
soft,
lead
the
coke,
matchin'
my
kicks
So
make
sure,
you
get
my
sneakers
when
you
snappin'
that
flick
And
I
advise
you
to
carry
that
Bible
for
survival
Surprise
you,
return
like
Jesus,
without
the
costume
Come
on
young'n,
you
dumbin'
I've
been
doin'
this
shit
since
King
Culing,
cookin'
grams
in
the
oven
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