Lyrics:
by the fans
Got the pyrex bowl, microwave on swoll in the kitchen with the pots and the pans
My young niggas stay tatted up no shirt with the tool
on my Mac mane
The crack game ain't shit
Niggas trippin' in this rap game, bury me a G
I ain't got time for bitches
Gotta keep my mind on my
a little throwback, like this
Look, look
With so much drama in the RSC
Most of these niggas in LA ain't
Got the heart to beef, so don't
Come around my
Forrest, Plug be kickin' like Chuck Norris
Takin' trips all through the forest, On my way to see my florist
Yeah, he got them big bouquets, But there ain't
gangsta style
'Cause I be seein niggaz bein more aggressive now
After peace treaty meetings and the weapons down
Sport Chucks 'member once it was Nikes
Tote the thing, the MAC gon' shoot to kill
Growing pains, the bag been getting real
Growing pains, my bag keep getting filled
Got a new crib, new whip
Live by the code, die by the code
Never been a hoe, bury me before I sell my soul
Live by the code, die by the code
Never been a hoe, bury me
Buck & 50, I'm Ridin Shotgun with the Mac 11, this the Remix homie Stunt 1-8-7, before I lose my life, for that dime embezzled, I'll tint the window with
Mac, who goes to the track
And drinks till he thinks he's sober
He takes his pay, and chucks it all away
And thinks that he's having fun . . . No!
Back
great, my tummy aches
It's been a long time since I last ate
I've got specific dietary needs
I don't eat meat, respectfully
Do you know if this was
somebody put me otherwise
Yeah, drive-bys out of Cherico
Hey, my youngest shoot when I tell him to
Who the competition, who, huh, Derek Lu
I mean, beside
blow some stacks
Say "Fuck it" by the rack
Straps go clack, need cheese with the mac
Whatchu know bout bustin' down a bag?
Gucci do rag, and my tracksuit
dollar car where I sit
And my broad is the shit
Crenshaw in the 6
Got it parked at the Shell in front of all of the Crips
You either ball or you brick
to the County with no motherfuckin' bail
4800 with this Crippin', oh well
My big homie Boy Blue snatched me by my coattail
He said trip Dogg, ya better get
chuck
It in Flushing Park
I'll be right here with the truck in park
While the Gap Band played I stared in a daze
My graze can't be patched with a band-aid
a game in my vein
[Verse 1: Mac]
Murda murda I wrote it in braile
Uncut, lyrical dope, certified by my scale
The homicide rapper, there'll never be
a mac and a spliff on my lap (in my lap)
Got a bag of this piff and a cap
Tell your girl stop giving me love reacts (she love it)
I don't think she comin'
a Mac Bitch
Young Mac Mark
Young Black Brothas Records is a goddamn flop
Khayree needed to stop
Way back when his ass got dropped
From that major label
a game in my vein
[Verse 1: Mac]
Murda murda I wrote it in braile
Uncut, lyrical dope, certified by my scale
The homicide rapper, there'll never be
tipsy
Running everything west of the Mississippi
Its the unseen, pulling strings with my pinky ring
We got your woman, pucker up 'fore we fuck her up
tipsy
Running everything west of the Mississippi
Its the unseen, pulling strings with my pinky ring
We got your woman, pucker up 'fore we fuck her up
and went on my way
I got to the party 'bout ten, I'd say
It was after eleven when I rocked the mic
And by the time I left the stage, the people were hyped
Blue jeans, check! Black T, check!
Record my raps on a cassette tape deck
Wearin' no sweats cause Nike owns Chucks
Three rows of studs cause hoes
Bongo By The Way
I wake up every morning on the same shit
I smoke my 'Wood to the roach like I ain't rich
Niggas I used to hang with, is still
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