Ryde or Die
Yo if gon' sleep on somethin, might as well be a bed And if you gon' crack a nigga, might as well be a head Cause if you targettin the L.O.X. You might as as well target a box That you gon' sleep in for years, all covered wit rocks Cause I think not, I pop shots, I double what y'all got Ya hotshots aint got blocks, ya punta muchacha From the days in school, now a motherfucker rule And I could drop my chain in court, yeah, keeps ya cool That's how ice be, I'm priceless, the iciest And I dont gotta wear fatigues to blow out your chest My bullets thump when I'm laced in some fly shit, punk The baby nine be on the daily, aint no poppin a trunk But if I pop the trunk, its to hand you a rag So you can wipe down the windows on the side of my Jag Must I brag? My shit paid for, yours tagged And every bitch you grabbed, Sheek bend em back Ayo I hope you aint tongue-kissin your spouse Cause I be fuckin her in the mouth Type of nigga buck at your house Too slick, means she be suckin my dick And before you know it, I'ma have her stuffin my bricks Jada, if I kiss you now, you'll die later I been nice since niggaz was watchin movies on Beta Ready to clap, everybody givin me gats Cause believe it or not, we be the ones settin the traps You listen to y'all shit, then listen to our shit Ain't nuttin y'all faggots could do but gossip That's the reason now y'all niggaz ain't got shit Cause everytime I turn around y'all on the L.O.X. dick Niggaz thats narrow, I just smack em wit the barrel Give it to em at the light, like Kane's cousin Harold The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders F*ck you and your son, y'all low wit the scum Show me the money, I'll show you a gun, motherfucker SP'll spin the corner while you parle' with dun I clap you, I clap him, and thats rule number one Suckin my dick, and I dont give a f*ck what you spit Who you are, where you from, and who the f*ck you can get Cause I sell records, plus I got a jail record Y'all niggaz ain't sayin shit until y'all bare weapons And even when you dead, you can still fuckin get it A nigga that'll smack ya, f*ck around and clap ya Styles P., your favorite rapper's favorite rapper Aint no surprise niggaz, only f*ck wit recognized niggaz Babygirl want the world, gave ya pies niggaz No tops, take em in all shape and size niggaz No lie, prefer them ready do or die niggaz What? What you want? cutey starin at me like "Damn, where you from?" You be comin at me like "Can I get some?" Lick your lips for this brown sugar Suck mine like a thumb, if you want, til I come, uh The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders The Ruff Ryders! (What?) The Ruff Ryders I be the D-R, A-G, dash O-N, slash often Comma, burnin niggas often They call me Drag-On, I'm hot scorchin Keep the block roastin Light a dutch wit the flames comin, toastin In my eyes you could see what summer's holdin Realizin, every guy I'll fry or dead rowdy I burn to a degree of 130, and my gun dirty Cause it got one bury, so you better run, hurry Or catch one early You wrong, tryin to touch me, what type of shit you on? You better through your boots on and your unflammable suits on Cause I'm comin through wit a Yukon Black tinted wit gats in it Catch you while you smokin, send your casket, throw the sack in it But only half of it, cause y'all like half-ass dude And we are one whole, and y'all niggaz is one slash two My gun blast you, tryna out the flames, what're you, firemen? You'll catch a hell of a backdraft cause my fire retirin, aight then Its my, survival instinct that keeps my head above the water Everyday I show another how a I love a slaughter Flood your daughter, full of more holes than spurges Taxin businessmen for stocks over lunches Wit these, I shoot the breeze, and extort Enough keys from the Cuban, to build a fuckin fort Caught up in somethin that I cant control Tryna get a hold of a bankroll, let's role Catch bodies like a cold, and I stay slick so face it Make me chase it, I take your life and erase it Waste it, in the fuckin streets cause it ain't worth shit The undertaker take your ass under the earth quick, I Love money, but the scrambles hot So i snatch up my man and the gamblin spot Twenty grand is got, one niggaz shot, one nigga less What used to be his chest is now a mess under his fuckin vest
Written by: David Styles, Earl Simmons, Edward Green, Erick Sermon, Ernesto Shaw, Eve Jeffers, George Clinton, Jason Phillips, Kenneth A. Ifill, Mel Jason Smalls, Parrish Joseff Smith, Ronald Banks, Sean Jacobs
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
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