Lyrics:
me that ain't for me
But I was hooked by the black and the chrome
So I was back in my home
In the books practised tags on my own
Graduated from
a fat ass, but really, I'm a titty man
Hit the strip club, spent at least about fifty bands
Fuck all the bullshit, I'm the real Dirty Dan
Ayy, what you
a fat ass, but really, I'm a titty man
Hit the strip club, spent at least about fifty bands
Fuck all the bullshit, I'm the real Dirty Dan
Ayy, what you
killing style
Everybody talk cause we home now
Look at here boy, you'd better gone now
It used to be black but it's chrome now
If it's cocked back then it's
As we return, to the 36 Chambers
The RZA, the GZA
The Ol Dirty BZA
You-God, Chef, the Ghostface Killah
And Meth, Rebel I soldier for
not this bitch, man!
We put the J in Juggalo
I put the F in fat kid
No, I'm not a pimp but I'll slap that bitch
I like the Juggalettes with the big
niggas..... startin' at five G's
Oh, I'm the young nigga dressed in black on black
With glocks to mack in the hoop in 'dis black on black
Spillin' brains
with the fat rugged stack
Shame on you, when you step through to the Ol' Dirty Bastard?
pie while life seems to zoom by
And all I’ve got to show for, dirty T’s and dirty loafers... and some prune vibes
Sunk to the sofa
Fat from drinking
green stuff
Provided to you by sack man
Pacman how in the fuck do you think we gon' do that, man?
Ridin' round Old National on eighteens without no
and
I'm a black grenade that'll blow up in your face
With a fifth in me, when I guzzle Remy I do shit on purpose
You never hear me say, "Forgive me"
I'm
green stuff
Provided to you by sack man
Pacman how in the fuck do you think we gon' do that, man?
Ridin' round Old National on eighteens without no
and vacuuming (yeah)
Rapping in the booth in a triple fat goose hazmat suit
Bubble wrap and a mask too and
I don't think that's what they meant by trap music
and vacuuming (yeah)
Rapping in the booth in a triple fat goose hazmat suit
Bubble wrap and a mask too and
I don't think that's what they meant by trap music
of Crooklyn, type Saturday night
The gear the god was rocking type way out of sight
Limping past the projects
Seen my man, a'ight
Steelo type fat, solar type
is like that green stuff
Provided to you by sack man
Pacman how in the fuck do you think we gon' do that, man?
Ridin' round Old National
They picked us up
Yeah they lit us up
That black tar feeling
Got the fat tires squealing
Yeah we healed some
Yeah we feelin' some
Type of way
They
A 20 minute song
It's not actually 20 minutes
Duey! put on something creative
Duey, you're so fucking dirty, hehehe
Oh boy
Is there any way I
with the fat rugged stack
Shame on you, when you step through to the Ol' Dirty Bastard?
hashed up
I'm State Store, North Philly get ya cash up
My congregation a hundred shorties
Wit fat butts i'm warrior style
You over print on my black tux
I
the herb
Red-eyed flight, and I'm lookin for my red-eyed homie
Black tone, 'cause I said I might
Just hafta pass through, and let 'em hear some shit that's
I Go 30, my dough old like Bernie, I got hoes so thirsty
Vision blurry, sipping on that dirty, I sip pink like Kirby
Time is key so I ain't in no
again
Sipping Hen
Staring at that white girl from Michigan
She was with a friend, fat ass fly ho
I went in for the kill, ASAP, pronto
So wait boo, 'fore
land
Cause justice has been banned
So it's play dirty or die by the hand
That's holding all the guns
Plunged, deep into religion was my first
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