Lyrics:
But the thugs held the door and he could not get out.
And then others followed, a hundred or more
But most everybody remained on the floor.
Words and music by Woody Guthrie
While we're on the subject of hard work, I just wanted
To say that I always was a man to work.
I was born working
My number one goal is to get her out the hood
Never changed, I be thuggin' hard in my section
Me and my dawgs proteted by Smith & Wessons
Any nigga
make it back, three bricks more
The people always run up on us in Texas though
Only by the grace of God they ain't catch us though
Some lil' young
And nigga P said he wanted inspiration (Damn P)
I was really more on some "fuck the word" shit so let's see
(Fuck these niggas man, real talk)
I'm
man
I hope you go down there with Satan
Because you come from a fake land
Manipulated by Satan
But at the end you cannot escape God
Fuck Satan
Always
Round the corner, Sally!
Round the corner by 'n' by.Round the corner, Sally!
Sally Brown she's the gal for me.Round the corner, Sally!
She's waitin there
that I left behind when
I blasted off.. what's her name?
She must have another man by this time,
baby daddy, and maybe more, the way the
drama plays
I'm home, yeah, yeah-yeah
I've been wakin' the spirits of millions more to come
A million illegally downloaded my truth over the drums
I believe in
your stock fell
Im more flavor than Ox tails
Gwon gal Im more
Budweiser than Clydesdales Feel that
Yeah I roll the reefer
Pull out the plug its
100
talk snow, where the soft at
Your man got murked, but you squashed that
Hope you know what we call that
I think you know just what we call that
All
Caddy
How in the world did I manage to smoke this many?
About a hundred, man. Feel it all in my stomach
To the brain severely blunted,
And it ain't
posse
It's time to step on some motherfuckin' toes
(Nah D!) Man, fuck them hoes
The East Coast ain't playin' our songs
I want to know what
blue traveling bag
You know that man she loves ah he's puttin' her on
But no queen could love him more
And in her mind their ship will sail to a hundred
we really hype
Got di proof in di cup you know a fi wi vibe
cll di gal dem flex wid dwag you know them down to ride
Touch di road clean man swagger
in time
Heart of gold, limbs of steel, Man-Of-War
Oh, Saratoga
Ooo, play your favorite
Odds are more than one hundred
Oh, Willie said
Ooo,
You can tell by the way I walk that I got 'em
Bail any girl that I wanna
Got bitches 'n marijuana
I can tell by the way you move that you a problem
I don't smoke menthol (more-more m-m-menthol)
Got confetti in my lungs ('fetti, in my, lung)
Got a broken jaw (bro-ken-ken jaw-jaw-jaw)
'Cause
shit
Two hundred pounds of Kush, I'm tryna sell that shit
My migo said fuck it, he gon' mail the brick
Soon as I get my hands on it, I'm gonna sell
pupils swell up like two pennies
I'm Clint Eastwood in his mid-twenties
A young-ass man with a trash can strapped to the back of his ass
So the rats
fuck your wristwatch
Pause, let it stop, hope we get by
Bye when I zoom, let it vroom
'Bout a hundred goons with a fume, better let it [?]
A hundred
Produced by: TREETIME
Skit Vocal by: MC F.Port/PlanZ普兰兹一
Recorded/Mixed/Mastered by: 郭子翊/瑞
MC F.Port’s Intro:
Damn, man, yo, gimmie the mic, man
back alive
If they don't bring you down by 12
They're gonna bring you down by 5
Well you came straight out of Tucson
Such a man among the mice
She
and some friends on an ocean-liner ship
She made a big mistake by leaving me home
I had to roam so I picked up the phone
Dialed Ali up to see what was
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