(bustin and runnin)
I hear a siren you know what that means, the boys in blue is on the way. And people duckin in and out to find a safe place to hideout, but not me I'm standin in full view of the street steady waitin on the police, thankin them for catchin me their attempts to trap me are useless, and the army of dead I command are forma ruthless.
(and your S. W. A. T team with snipers on every roof top scopin)
And the team leader barkin out orders to throw the smoke in
You knoe that you gonna bump it like aaliyah said I'm 1 in a million and sometimes you can't comprehend the shit I'm feelin
(but that's ok, I'm reloadin)
And fully prepared to bust ya skull open. Got you stripped down like a bitch at the bar searchin for tips. All be this got the shakes cuz you can't afford a hit. I'm a G in every sense of the word so my game is soldier so I match the motha fuckin pigs like a jelly donut.
Look out the police is comin, got me runnin through the crack house bustin and runnin.
Look out, cuz I don't wanna get sprayed ya better lay it down for yo ass get destroyed
(i gotta blunt in my right hand a gun in my left takin shots at the cops either jail or death I'm already dead you can't kill me and I aint goin to the pen, bitches come run me)
I jumped in the caddy on the way to the dope house, I see the red and blue hold-up time out who they fuckin wit, I'm a g wit a trunk full of dope and heavy artillery
(pull your vehicle to the side of the road)
Oh yall think I'm playin well ya'll just don know better run the plate check who you fuckin wit or get found on the sidea the road in a ditch, east side bitch boy what the fuck you thought quit fuckin wit these killas we'll blow ya head off we some hustlas tryna get rich quick. Get money wit the boss and comp for old shit. Motha fucka for real I'm just lettin you know, fuck wit a dead man it's yo funeral. So when you pull up on a g wit a hatchet in the window take yo ass to the coffee shop bitch ass po po.
Why you still followin me I get w2 to pay my taxes you gonna make a motha fucka have some relapses. Th red, white, and blues have been known to set me off and you about to fall victim to the molatov (cocktail). The smell is foul and overwhelming of you burnin in ya cruiser and ya lights is meltin, why can't I be dead, have a bitch, and enjoy dealin without one a yall motha fuckas botherin me, callin me a sinner, but I'm not I'm the dead body from the block. And aint nobody on there pushin rocks. I'm a grown up but not in the sense that you accustom, I graduate from the 22's to the 9's that I'm bustin. At you I empty the clip on the cops who testin and leave em lyin dead in the intersection. You want beef you got it homeboy it's what I'm servin, take the safety off your gun cuz I know that your nervous.
(i gotta blunt in my right hand a gun in my left takin shots at the cops either jail or death I'm already dead you can't kill me and I aint goin to the pen, bitches come run me