Lyric Shotz To The Double Glock
All:
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.
Tony Tone:
If you re down to glide and slide on the Clair, then let s ride. Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you come
just bring your guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon have fun with ya. So, nigga, don t get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, slangin llello. It all remains the same.
Wish:
Step and you re catchin some buckshots. Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock. Mo Thug, what s up? Nigga, get drug,
put em in the mud, pop and I can t stop, now. Niggas that I thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How does it feel? And nigga we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin , I m buckin em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don t test my hood.
Tombstone:
A first degree murderin wig splitter, gravedigger diggin a ditch, puttin a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don t fuck with
them niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin the crime and murderin every time. Niggas beware, cause
here come the Clair mobbin like some soldiers. Watch me fold ya for actin like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that nine shot, givin props to the double glock.
Flesh:
Pump, pump, when I let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme the goodies, and nigga me dash. I reach for the gauge and
mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, don t test nuts. Your luck s fucked. Your feelin wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin up for your ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin
them chop chops. We rippin them guts with buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.
Krayzie:
You better believe that we runnin this thug style: Krayzie, Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, them wicked, now. We straight off the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now. East 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
have your pop, niggas be trippin and flippin as soon they get high. One-eighty-seven, you re caught in a murder. Niggas up to
no good. Po-po. Fuck no. They never could fuck with a thug-ho.
Pop, pop, givin up shots to the double-glock, glock.
Mo! Hart:
Nothin but them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin bucks of lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin pump eruptions, nickel trip and shut
and fuck em down, buckin them coppers down, round after round after round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain t no sound, just the demons screamin , "Rest in peace. I guess you got to suffer." Ready to dip, hollow point tip,
got your wig split, and made your body rupture, hunt my victims on a mission, flippin , livin on a darker side, creepin on your
homicide. Let my nuts and my gauge hang low. Now, walk on by.
All:
[Boogy Nikke on the mic, right.]
Boogy Nikke:
Thuggin through my thuggish-ass hood at night with my pipe. Thuggin down the double-glock, tryin to get my serve on,
watchin my back while six-five try to roll on. But one to the sucka s head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the reefer smoke all up inside me.
Layzie:
We jumpin up out from the hood. We bailin . We thuggin . We lookin like crooks. The terror be fatal, ready to roll, now we
willing and able, rollin with Ruthless, bitch, better check my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight through the ten-five is the soldiers ghetto. Nigga, don t take the
wrong turn; you will enter the hood, and we re splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg Pound home, it s on.
Sin:
Never get in the mix of a Clair player; you re liable to get your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, cause them thugs sendin
them slugs, leavin em off in the cut in a puddle of blood, say what? Don t make me go in my trench. Nigga, ya got me bent,
all fucked up. Your luck s up. Now you gotta get sent to your gravesite as John Doe for fuckin with those...
Gates:
It s them thugs runnin amuck all night, but a slug up in you. The territory never divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck. So
where you at? Where you at? I m strapped and ready to snap and yank a nigga s neck back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair to tear a round) fore somebody gets stuck. You still won t
want some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.
Tony Tone:
If you re down to glide and slide on the Clair, then let s ride. Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you come
just bring your guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon have fun with ya. So, nigga, don t get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, slangin llello. It all remains the same.
Wish:
Step and you re catchin some buckshots. Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock. Mo Thug, what s up? Nigga, get drug,
put em in the mud, pop and I can t stop, now. Niggas that I thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How does it feel? And nigga we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin , I m buckin em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don t test my hood.
Tombstone:
A first degree murderin wig splitter, gravedigger diggin a ditch, puttin a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don t fuck with
them niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin the crime and murderin every time. Niggas beware, cause
here come the Clair mobbin like some soldiers. Watch me fold ya for actin like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that nine shot, givin props to the double glock.
Flesh:
Pump, pump, when I let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme the goodies, and nigga me dash. I reach for the gauge and
mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, don t test nuts. Your luck s fucked. Your feelin wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin up for your ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin
them chop chops. We rippin them guts with buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.
Krayzie:
You better believe that we runnin this thug style: Krayzie, Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, them wicked, now. We straight off the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now. East 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
have your pop, niggas be trippin and flippin as soon they get high. One-eighty-seven, you re caught in a murder. Niggas up to
no good. Po-po. Fuck no. They never could fuck with a thug-ho.
Pop, pop, givin up shots to the double-glock, glock.
Mo! Hart:
Nothin but them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin bucks of lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin pump eruptions, nickel trip and shut
and fuck em down, buckin them coppers down, round after round after round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain t no sound, just the demons screamin , "Rest in peace. I guess you got to suffer." Ready to dip, hollow point tip,
got your wig split, and made your body rupture, hunt my victims on a mission, flippin , livin on a darker side, creepin on your
homicide. Let my nuts and my gauge hang low. Now, walk on by.
All:
[Boogy Nikke on the mic, right.]
Boogy Nikke:
Thuggin through my thuggish-ass hood at night with my pipe. Thuggin down the double-glock, tryin to get my serve on,
watchin my back while six-five try to roll on. But one to the sucka s head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the reefer smoke all up inside me.
Layzie:
We jumpin up out from the hood. We bailin . We thuggin . We lookin like crooks. The terror be fatal, ready to roll, now we
willing and able, rollin with Ruthless, bitch, better check my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight through the ten-five is the soldiers ghetto. Nigga, don t take the
wrong turn; you will enter the hood, and we re splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg Pound home, it s on.
Sin:
Never get in the mix of a Clair player; you re liable to get your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, cause them thugs sendin
them slugs, leavin em off in the cut in a puddle of blood, say what? Don t make me go in my trench. Nigga, ya got me bent,
all fucked up. Your luck s up. Now you gotta get sent to your gravesite as John Doe for fuckin with those...
Gates:
It s them thugs runnin amuck all night, but a slug up in you. The territory never divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck. So
where you at? Where you at? I m strapped and ready to snap and yank a nigga s neck back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair to tear a round) fore somebody gets stuck. You still won t
want some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.
