Hit the dank and took my glock off lock, and off
|
To the 21st blocc, I'm rollin in a drop top
|
Three for zero that black criminal mac mac nigga
|
That pap! pap! me hittin a couple of rounds
|
And while I test him, hey fuck a Smith & Wesson
|
I got my, nine at my chest and I got my dime bag
|
Of stress weed, a 40 oz. of OE and I'm creepin
|
Up on some niggas in a mob and a nigga claimin OG,
|
Pap! hit him in that dome and it was that nigga's worst
|
Put him on the ground wit a brain, full o' dem nine slugs
|
So wrap that nigga up, put him in a hearse
|
And I'm hittin 50, right around that curb, tight,
|
Rollin up in a 64, 4 doors sideways to the next light (YOU KNOW)
|
An I hit that corner of 24 street, some nigga mean mugging
|
Lynch, and I pop in a clip and I'm not finna get got,
|
I'ma shoot before I'm shot for the fact I'm B-U-Double D-E-D
|
I'm reaching up in my glove box, for the welfare weed
|
That's fillin a nigga's siccness so I miss dead bodies
|
In an, oldsmobile, up on the curb and while I'm skirtin
|
Pass the view wit an empty 9 and some bourbon (riiight)
|
I just adjust to the fact that niggas aint got no hope
|
I'm fillin em up with 16s, and letting em know
|
|
[Chorus]
|
It's either that die, or that sickness, and it's the nigga that nigga that
|
One you come see, with that 9 millimeter meter watch them 9 millimeter meat
|
Wikkihdie come, Wikkihtah come, Wikkihtah come, Wikkihtah E-drop, styling,
|
If I don't get you with me nina then me, you, scream,
|
And two pop nigga that mine in the deuce for the deuce
|
Without them gun shells, firing, fidda them don't know me when me high
|
Off them doughshot killa weed, me take-a me nine millimeter nine,
|
And me blast him, enemy for the die, 'cause of dat siccness dem creep
|
And ten baumy and a them say
|
|
Load up that nine I'm finna finna go boom!
|
Them no dubbin up that nina cut them in half with some of them
|
Ripgut, quality, for the fundamental cannibalism
|
Got them black enemy runnin in and when them,
|
Sickness kick in a million, baby dying, boom!
|
|
Hit em with my G like every day, nigga,
|
From the creek to the Garden Blocc,
|
I was creepin from the double dead red till all the drama stop,
|
And 50 150 is all that shouldn't even be on a niggas list
|
'cause since for the fuckin with I've been crazy times 6 charging in '66 and um,
|
Niggas cant see my folk when I dump them .44 slugs all down they throat
|
It takes one time, all night, to peel your tonsols
|
From the phone post, you know,
|
All up in the cut with the real deuce deuce four love I got
|
But you know that nigga from the creek so peep at what this trigger got
|
Come follow me sin, come quick 'cause I'm bustin all up on your, blocc
|
Shakin up yo nuts like dice deuce four in the don't strike twice
|
Them gon all go say "oh" about 44 times till so,
|
Much later than you go, better off dead, but nigga instead
|
That I let your mama know, she might wanna follow this Fahlivum shit
|
'cause a nigga wont last much longer, with wraps in the cut
|
Chewin all on your nuts like my nigga Jeffrey Dahlmer,
|
Cant load that shit that sickness gets me harder than a corpse
|
Till I reach for the greeds that nigga start jackin off until it hurts
|
Swallow my shit so thick this nigga run loccs up on you almost daily
|
For the digs then I'm off dick grow soft with lynch I'm chewin up babies
|
We gonna stay sicc, for the crazy run em up gospel shit kicks in
|
It's the nigga named 6 with the locc to the brain style fix
|
Eatin up your dead skin
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
-----------------
|
Season Of Da Siccness
|
Brotha Lynch Hung |