Lyrics:
man got 10 mail man got 3
And just your luck the rap game got me hold up
[Juelz Santana]
Here we go again just spent a hundred of that brown paper
to the moon and the stranger
And your fall by the sword love affair with Erroll Flynn
in these times of compassion when conformity's in fashion
Say one more
single I told her damn right
Yeah she got a man, but she single for the night
I'm single single single single single
She's single for the night
Single
you leave in your blood
Goin' in flippin' hundreds get the young
Show 'em where it go
Float on the floor
Gettin' more dough
Grind hard go
Black
not yet
But while summer, I bet
I get my next child from her
Have a baby by me playin' as loud as I wanna
My checks, they pile, runneth over
Older
to the store for some more baking soda
Yo, yo, yo, get your fuckin', yo this made of glass, man
Get your big Avias off my mom's table man
The fuck is wrong
gal
You make it love to a bad man
We make it, we make it love bad gal
You make it love to a bad man
Bad man love, she want bad man love
Bad man
You don't know who you f***ing with
Ain't no democrat, and by far I'm no republican
This the type of talk that'll probably piss off my publicist
as a wholesaler
I think it's good that 'Ye got a blow dealer
A hot temper, matched with a cold killer
I came aboard for more than just to rhyme with him
Think '99,
these crackers will give my black ass a hundred years
I'm like Paulie in Goodfellas, you can call me the Don
Like Malcolm by any means, with my gun in
on the block G watch for the block or whatever
And cut no cut more guns more guts fuck boy you fucked up twice you fucked considerin' you drownin'
Die in
100 bands 100 bands 100 bands
Break in my crib
I aint treating you like brother man
Cometheziene spilled in the limousine
And I'm Smoking gas
And its
disappear, I'm a damn magician (yeah)
A .40 Cal., rubberbands, and a shoebox (yeah)
Run through a hundred grand watching Matlock (ayy)
Got it by
That's all
That's all
Don't look so sad
You're my gal
cnd I'm your man
Let's get laid
Don't get mad
Don't get mad
When you held me by the hand
In
sold out
Cause down a hundred ground
Like a rapping in a dope house
Man wherever I be
The feds got me scoped out
Mother fucker let my nuts hang
sneak away honey
Take this dance outside
Where Cicadas gonna sing their south love song
Been singing it to nobody for too long
You're a
Footloose gal
I'm
the stash, pop out the mac
Try and pop out ya back
More to sweat, i'll pop out ya rat
Come on man
I ain't got time for that love shit
Get outta here
Niggas
died in Iraq
Five hundred and nine died in Chicago
I arrived on the day Fred Hampton died
Uh, real niggas just multiply
And they say by twenty-one
these crackers will give my black ass a hundred years
I'm like Paulie in Goodfellas, you can call me the Don
Like Malcolm by any means, with my gun in
to the studio
You know he do it one take
He said tell me what you think of this
And I heard it, and I was thinking like, man
I really wanted more like
As I remember
It was four hundred years or more
Since you came to crucify
And they were taken far away from home
There were promises of paradise
[Verse 1]
Di Hennessy pure
Pour some pon di floor
Yow dat a fi Pookie and a hundred more
Let's fuck up di club dawg
We mekking a toast
Wi fist in dem heart
LIGHTEN THAT LOAD
I'm your honky tonk daddy down in Tennessee
I got this Gibson cranked up with these new guitar strings
I'll play you Working Mans
the game in entirety
Hundred percent cut, no stitches required (no)
Welcome to Detroit where if you get that promotion
Don't worry man, them bullets will
Discuss these 100 gal more by beenie man Lyrics with the community:
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In