paroles de chanson Hustler - Swishahouse

Here's a couple of suggestions on how you could finesse it
You find a dude in town, you send him a short message
Say, "Hey, I'm new in town, I don't know my way around

But I got some soft white that's sure to come back brown
I get that butter all night"
'Cause most niggas don't know a brick from a bite
They keep buyin' hard white
You free— You free tomorrow night? We can meet and discuss price

FYI, I never been robbed in my life
Or, you find a chick, shit, you hold up in her crib and
Let her introduce you 'round town like her man
Shake hands, make friends like it's all innocent
Then, before they look up, you sellin' the town, cook up
Or, gorilla pimp, come up on that killer shit
Take a nigga brick, smack him, then you sell it back to them
Still there, Brooklyn?
(Yeah, yeah, that's gangsta, I think I'ma roll with that one)
Make y'all a check for eight hundred dollars, Jigga man

1-900-Hustler, Sigel, holla at your boy
What's up, Sig? This for the young, the young guns, dog
What up?
I'm ready to smash these niggas in the rap game
But niggas takin' too long with that advance money and shit (Yeah?)
Talkin' 'bout, "Chill, chill on pay the bills" (Yeah, I feel that)
I know you well-connected, dog, let me holla at somebody real
Alright, look, I got the perfect person for you, hold on
Blink, line two

Listen, shorty, you wanna roll? Just give me the word
I ain't got time for a sentence, all that shit is absurd
You find a strip first
If you don't cook, find a bitch first

If you don't hustle, find a nigga who pitch first
You new in— New in town, no red and blue in town, it's gangs
Don't get fresh, let 'em know you small change
The strong— The strong move quiet
The weak— The weak start riot
We know— We know you got a brick of twenties, twenties 'til they tired
With no credit, you know you sick with that gotta eat fetish
Them other niggas who get it, dead— Dead it

Make 'em an offer that they can't refuse
He resists, box him in 'til he can't be moved
Here's the rules: chop it, bag it, stash it, stack it
Get in, get out, the O— The OG's classic

900-HUSTLER, you pass it around
Wanna speak to me direct? Hit extension trey-pound
I'm out

1-900-Hustler, Sigel, holla at your dog
What's in the business, my boy?

Yo, what up? This is Murder Def, kill homicide, nigga
I got two bricks
Yo, watch your fuckin' mouth, man
Fuck you mean watch my mouth, nigga?
Throwin' a whole bunch of hollows, nigga
How long you been on the line? Shut the fuck up
Matter of fact, hold on

I know this nigga just put— put me on hold, man

Freeze, freeze
Throwin'— Throwin' shit at his elevator in this bitch
Pick up line five

First— First things first
Watch— Watch what you say out your mouth
When you talkin' on the phone, the hustlers never play the house
Think drought, keep heat in the couch
When you sittin' in the presence of customers, never hold out
Pull out, throw heat and be out
If a nigga ever think that he touchin' ya

Lay low, KK, Paul— Paul Estate— Estate
That's dope— That's dope yay— Yay, right a— Right amount of bass
Nigga— Nigga too close, went right around his place
Yo, you stoppin' dough when we clutchin' the gats
I know you heard Friend or Foe, this ain't different from that
Make sure you got your four-four, a nigga can slip if he like

Young JonBenét daughter missin' tonight
And yo, until you up, stay away from them dice and whores
Three smuts, two straights and a dyke
'Cause boys want three bundles, two straights and a pipe, for sure
If it's tight, then he might come back for more
Nine and four, every day, back and forth
Winter to summer, 1-900-HUSTLER
Pass the number to your stackin' boys
Tell you how to weigh shit, where to package more
I take cash or write the check out the F-R

Two E's, that'll be two G's
If I get my money, I'm comin' for all your ki's, nigga

1-900-Hustler, Sigel, holla at your boy, dog
Yo, what up, youngin? You put me on hold earlier, man
What happened, son?
Yeah, you stupid motherfucker
You talkin' all reckless on the phone

Fuck you think this is, the Get Indicted
Hotline or somethin', motherfucker?
My bad, my bad
I know I was talkin' reckless earlier, but I'm too chicken
You get it? Too chicken
But listen
What?
Just tell me how to move this shit, man
I'm pushin' hard, give me half a wing back, nigga, holla
Get a job, holla at Purdue

Uh
This the OG Ron C, DJ Michael Watts
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