[Chorus:]
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Comin' Up Comin' Down,
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That G in H-Town,
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South Bound as I clown,
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Come around blaze a pound
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[x4]
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[First Verse:]
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Well let me jump in this funk, with a pump and fake,
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Give me five funky dollars you can bump my tape,
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Cuz my flow come reala than a dealer servin' killa,
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Ain't nobody trilla, Still a body chilla,
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Feel a millimeter comin' quicker than a cheetah,
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Me drop you on your peta,
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Then snatch your senorita,
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I be the creepa, back street sweeper,
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Want a pound of reefer, hit me on my beeper,
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Leaf of tha Ganga, make me really want'cha,
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Dip me up in water, fried with me sauncha,
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Got'cha, me glock pop pop on your drop top,
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Tha way I dodge cops like the rock in hop scotch,
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Drop a pig, I can dig deep in your terrordome,
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Smoke on my square alone, don't know one care at home,
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Pair of chrome gats, blow backs on tha sidewalk,
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I got my glock poppin' hot rocks in your body, party-hearty,
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Lodi Dodi Carley, your Daddy smoke like Bob Marley,
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Sorry I'm hardly the one you should learn from,
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Everywhere I turn somebody wanna burn one,
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It's the cursed son worse than the first one,
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When me gat burst to the nurse or the hearse,
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Cuz I shoot'em in the booty man, local Hillwoodian,
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Choppin' on a cookie, Mama put me in the Looney bin,
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Could have been a better man, up in NeverNeverLand,
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Jesus's helpin' hand, reason this record jam,
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Never ran, never will,
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Still chill in Hillwood,
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Damn sure feel good,
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Livin' in a real hood
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[Chorus]
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[Second Verse:]
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Now you can work on knees,
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You can jack for keys,
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I cut my cheese,
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And get t stackin' G's,
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Drinkin' daquiri's, and ain't no jackin' these,
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I got slack in the front and the back of me,
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It's a tragedy, I was raised on streets,
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Blazed on sweets, and sprayed posses,
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Costly profession, learned my lesson,
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Bout' Impressin' my click with Smith & Wesson,
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Addressin' Ghetto issues,
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When I sold me crack, had me Mom goin' through a box of tissues,
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But if I was in his shoes, I'd probably still lose,
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It's in my blood to kill fools,
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Him choose death when he disrespect,
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Inject my Tec, and then I press eject,
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The Mex will check any clique that trips,
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It don't make sense talkin' lip to clips,
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Which way to run, where do you hide?
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Boo-YAH! Ooh y'all almost died,
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Now take a ride with me, through the deep blue sky,
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Here take a hit, let me get you high
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[Chorus]
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-----------------
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Comin' Up Comin' Down
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| South Park Mexican |
