The year is 1994 Black Market Records, 2001 Records, and Doomsday Productions Combined forces to create an unfadable click Make way for the hounds of the underground Feel the fury, hahhaahaha...
(Pit) I put my hands in my pockets They jingle cause they full of change Sometimes being broke'll make you fall astray But I got a better grip on myself So I avoid gettin played short like a elf Bust her side, bust her in the head Then watch al the yolk come runnin out his neck I'm tryin to stack a grip so don't let me hit this sticky Cause if I hit this sticky, I'ma shoot me a bitch Fuck it, bang bang Five minutes later, the cops came I'm settin up shop for the black market So if I aim at your mark ass your a target Told you that I'd come, but I came insane Throwin brain cell killas, scramblin niggas brains If you gotta go, you gotta go I like the 64' I'm pullin GTA's, it aint yours no more Then I take it and strip it down and leave nothin but the frame Then I'm gonna sell my cousin your gold thangs Copper burnin, turnin over like a flapjack Mo money mo money for black market
(Chorus) X 4 On the black market, yeah
(Eklypss) Creep and move with swiftness in the dark And aint no stoppin, once a nigga start And aint nothin new, up under the sun for days and days Under the moon, is where I was born and raised And Doom for life, nigga this aint no day life I love it, murderin muthafuckas in the night A Doomsta ready to make his mark, a underground target Hooked up with Black Market, now peep Shit gets deeper and deeper, meet me The Doomstown grim reaper, and Pit Platinum, Mr. Doctor, Lynch Hung We do your ass in good just for fun Fifteen inches in your ass bitch Take it and love it, but I aint talking bout no dick 14 suns and moons, somethin you can assume That on the 15th marks my day for doom Buck em and fuck em with Doomsday Productions Eklypss'll trip if I catch you fuckin with my grip You'll find your ass dead in a graveyard And I'ma continue on my...
[Brotha Lynch Hung] What if you see me chewin baby guts locc Would you choke or vomit when that teflon pierce that baby's throat? Peep me eatin dead cot You trip, cause eatin dead pussy clit'll make ya sick But it's that season so my reason is legit I'm havin fits, I've dreamed of eatin bloody pussy clit since I was 6 I fein for dead pussy on my dick, I got the schitz Meanin I don't give a shit about yo biatch That nigga that's from the block killin off that cott So nigga, shit Baby barbeque ribs and guts, and uh Don't let me get to deep fryin baby nuts Sluts, get ate out like a date, them crooked teeth hurt I pull that tampax string out and straight put in work It wouldn't work without the sick So page a nigga quick, so I can serve you some of that shit And have you murderin your biatch, violently I've been keyed for 20 minutes and feel like killin Loadin that milla-milla it's that infant killin Nigga Lynch, Mr. Doc, D-O double M and hella heat Niggas unload, I need another dose of human meat I live to creep, and black ya death by the scene As that nigga that nigga that nine millimeter punch you in yo spleen
(Chorus) X 4 On the black market, yeah
(Mr. Doctor) You lay your eyes up on my .44 And notice every curve in my strap As them tears roll down Flash yo life as ya fade to black If that gat wasn't all up in yo face Reminisce of yo folks, yo bitch, yo kids, yo fate Replace, take it down to the south, get deep Think of moms at your funeral locc, and all ya family, huh It's kind of crazy you could lose all of these things so quick And what's worse, nigga shot you for the fuck of it, yeah Never know I'd E the one to have your life in my hand (Brotha Lynch: That Ruger.44 Mag) That niggas life wont last, huh Keep listenin while I guide the gat right down into your throat Dig that barrel in your neck, watch your bitch ass choke No hope, no joke, I'm savin you the pain of old age All I ask for is your muthafuckin grip in exchange One to the brain, in the throat, out the skull From the big chrome gat, peeled cap, release your soul Now ya niggas know, one mo dead muthafucka on the street From the Mr. Doc Loc Straight to the brain with St. Ides brew The Black Market dealt murder when they signed me foo