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[Chorus] Do it, (come on now) Do it, (come on now) Do it, (Come on) Do the damn thing [Verse 1: Rasheeda] Come on let's start this shit Shawty let's crank this shit A little something for them hatin' hoes Who gets nothin' but them knees and boes Why y'all all in my grill, Why y'all can't keep it real Always tryin' to plot and scheme Want to live this life is just a dream Ain't no I in teams All the real niggas know what it mean Catch me y'all just to slow Hatin' hoes gotta let y'all go Don't never try to stop my flo' Won't tell you this shit no mo' The baddest hoe that you ever seen Two triple O, shawty bout that green [Verse 2: Que Bo Gold] Naw they don't understand These niggas don't understand These muthafuckers think we playin See they don't know what we sayin Fake niggas in our grill Fake niggas all in our grill These niggas don't want to get to it These niggas don't want to do it [Chorus] [Verse 3: Re Re] You can tell a real nigga from the fake fake A trill nigga that's down in the cake cake A hot girl that's clean not stank stank Some bad weave for somebody So you took a little drank So I guess it made you think that you could when you can't Wit the N with the ain't Ain't nobody got time round here to playing round Sucker with the big sack nigga better lay it down Comin' through ain't bout that shady shit Boy I'm mo' dirty than Dusty Rhodes I drop the beat and rock the flo' Representing that Que Bo Gold So don't you try to test us out thinkin' we country wit no skills 'cause I drop the bass and tame the bass Put this fire to yo grill [Verse 4: Rasheeda] Well I was born in Illinois okay ah Raised in Atlanta, G-A yah Lived in New York and L.A. yea My nigga I'm da shit no matter where I stay cause, uh, I was cut like that, lil buddy I'm stacked like that From the front to the side to the back, Rasheeda, and I'm tight like that I ain't never been worried bout another Cutter her buddy, lil buddy I don't studder 9 double lock chrome for the lame lame Big faces in my pocket not the chump change Ride the Benz with the wood grain, grilled out, smoke frame, With the knock knock 38 pop pop all you haters just stop Or you gone get dropped [Chorus] Verse 4: Pastor Troy Uh, Stick em, ha ha ha, stick em F*ck them pussy niggas and who ever wit em All I say is sic em And there go my boys D-S-G-B, Pastor damn Troy Boy you ain't ready Boy you don't want it Boy we ain't ready, bitch get disappointed Shit, all I know is southern blo'd not lower than a dime From thirty piece to quarter ki we strictly on the grind No time to spit no evidence, no evidence, no charge Since they ain't got no evidence I gave them my lil boy The scars from my hand as I crank up the speaker Drop the bomb on you bitches, Pastor and Rasheeda Bitch, do it! [Chorus]
Written by: DAMON YUL WIMBLEY, MARK MORALES, DARREN ROBINSON, RASHEEDA BUCKNER, KARESHA JONES, NIQUA JONES, MICAH LE VAR TROY
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management, Universal Music Publishing Group, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
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