Da Cops

Z-RoZ-Ro 

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Z-Ro

Joseph Wayne McVey (born January 19, 1977), better known by his stage name Z-Ro, is an American rapper, singer and producer from Houston, Texas. He was named one of America's most underrated rappers by the New York Times. more »

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Thank you thank you very much
Now it's back to the block, holla
You know, we from the hood right
We use to running from the cops, let's go

Hold up shhh wait, I think I hear the cops
Whoa, it's time to close down shop
Hold up shhh wait, I think I hear the cops
You hear them tires, when the block get hot

I'm straight off the plane
On my way to the block
Instead of a Matchbox
I got a neck full of rocks
A gold Bentley watch
With three karats on top
You know I got eight clovers
With three in the shop
Nigga I'm straight from the gutter
Too fresh to stutter
In my hood you rap, play ball or hustle
And if you living with your mother
And you over 18 that's a god damn shame
If you know what I mean
I'm still down with Will-Lean
Cause he kept it one hundred that's why
He got a welcome back piece on his stomach
My chinchilla been iller
Cause I cut the sleeves
And most niggas get X'd out
Because of greed
I'm top five dead or alive, I need my props
Left Miami in my plane
I had to leave my yacht and I try my best
To figure y'all people out
But niggas hate it cause I made it
And I'm sitting on top
I use to run from the cops, four years ago
A hardheaded young kid, stealing vehicles
My best friend got shot
And my uncle got popped
The FEDs caught his ass
Coming out of Little Rock
I pack a lil' Glock
A deuce-deuce in my socks
When y'all gon realize
I got the streets on lock
And my new Caprice drop, plus I got a L-Dog
Nigga this is how I'm living
I ain't gotta tell y'all
I'm about my mail dog
They told me I would fail y'all
I'm a hustler
I ain't gotta use a fucking scale dog
I'm about my mail y'all
They told me I would fail y'all
I'm a hustler
I ain't gotta use a fucking scale dog

Niggas respect me in my hood
Cause I don't kiss no ass
I got my license for my gun
Cause I ain't miss no class
Brr-ack now get back
Before this 4-5 kick back
What happened to that tough talk
Where your click at
I be in Harlem, with Jim and Cam
Or you can catch me in the Bronx
With Macho hoe or Fat Joe prick
You know I roll with them guards
We take niggas off the streets
And give 'em jobs
And most rappers play hard
Until they take a bullet
Anybody can get shot
It take a man to pull it
So what you proving, not a god damn thang
I peep your game
You just want fame off my name
But your plan back fired
Cause I run the streets
We the new NWA man, f*ck the police
You better listen close nigga
Cause I made this beat
I just shitted on you niggas
Cause I ate the beef
Get it, a fresh fitted with a button up shirt
I just add a little water, to fluffen my work
I got love for the streets
And they love me back
Cause everytime I get back
We all go get tats and we all getting fat
Cause I share the wealth
And I got the number one album, on the shelf
And we all getting fat
Cause I share the wealth
I got the number one album
On the fucking shelf

24 hours a day, the po-po's pass me
They know I'm legit
But I know they would love to harass me
Cause I'm young and I'm having thangs
And they don't like that
Especially when they see me rolling
In platinum Cadillacs
Or that Intrepid on 83's
With music in back of that
When I'm drug dealing I hit the hood
And transact in the back of that
But I be peeping over my shoulders
And watching my back
Cause now police will ride in
Bicycles in the hood, hide the strap homie
And you can't ride
If you got pockets full of crack homie
I'm not capping, but I don't play with my
Freedom like that homie
You know the word cop, mean Coward On Patrol
Back in school they were the
Ones that never fought back
They ran and told now they got the right
To pack a pistol and shit
That's why they pull up on the block
Fucking with niggas and shit
I even had to tint my windows
Cause they kept on trying to peep in
I know they'd love to catch me smoking
And lock me up for the weekend

I guess they figured they could do us
But now we got problems
My niggas specialize in murders
Where it ain't no solving
Equipped with the gat away skills
From posting up on the block
Where these fiends be all around you
Like roaches up on the block
Never protecting but they serve
Collecting they change
From marijuana to X pills
Drank hard to caine
But still they incarcerate
My niggas for half a dollar
And these snitches working with em
So I ain't got time to holler
Ain't no talking on my phone
Unless you in ABN
Other than that you got the wrong number
Cause I don't know no friends
But anyway what's the bidness
You riding behind a G
Suck my dick and get to worsing and
Slice the f*ck off of me

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