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Correct Y'all Can't Never Hurt Us Lyrics
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Philly's Most Wanted
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Correct Y'all Can't Never Hurt Us
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Verse 1: Mr. Mr. & (Boobonic) Yo, I'm two short of a brick, you two wit' me? (I got two O's and I'm bringin' two hoes wit' me) Look, don't bullshit me, scoop and come get me (shit, I'll be there in ten unless the Feds come hit me) (I move like lightening, that's what I was told) We can't trust these niggas, keep it comin' in codes (we had a deal on the table since ten years old) Was on Readyrock records, lp went gold (we had 36 groups, but they cooked up Nine) Managed 28 groups, what they cooked was mines Niggas wanna act fly, we forced to hit 'em up (and we just sold y'all a brick in code, so nigga what). Chorus (Both) Bullets from the chrome, Feds tap my phone, look (y'all can't never hurt Us) You'll fuck my bitch, shoot at my whole click, look (y'all can't never Hurt us) 'cause we'll shake the Feds, take ya bitch, money long, we got locked we Appeal the shit Bullets from the chrome, Feds tap my phone, look (y'all can't never hurt Us) Verse 2: (Mr. Mr.) I pass through more bills than congress in D. C. Stacks so thick you think you see 'em in 3-D If I'm outta town I phone home like E. T. Drive a ce, try cl fever Move plenty coke, got more spots than Cheetahs Got heaters, ain't scared to pop neither Shoot you, them three, and him too That's my procedure, fuck you gon' do? Hustle for all C's, you don't even dig Chick, car, chips, cold ass crib Best man at that, I'm the rap Taye Diggs Most Wanted keep it lethal like Murtaugh and Briggs A nice banana clip, I'll split your wig I'm a gangsta, you scared to death ain't ya? Carry more weight on boats than ten anchors Southwest playboy like Hugh Hefner I lied, and my bitch be out in one gesture Cut coke open, give it a tongue tester Face get numb it's good shit I'll bet ya Jump out the Coupe, walk by and wet ya. Chorus Verse 3: (Boobonic) Nosey ass niggas don't believe shit stink 'till I c*** the glock and put two through his mink You loose with your lip? Well, keep your vest tight 357 Mag in a Jag S-Type Don't talk me to death, you mothafuckas is just gettin' by While I'm rich bitch, just gettin' high You ain't on my level, you still admire skanks While I'm at Vic's Secret photo shoots with Tyra Banks And I'm not lyin', my advice is stop tryin' I bust big shit that'll never stop firin' Catch me at the bar whether it's the clam, shark, or sky I hate when rat niggas start to lie Dog, you don't got bricks I never seen you in the drop nor with a bitch You got your champaigne glass straight up, could tell you ain't never Poured Cris' Or bust a nigga with the Four-Fifth Stop your bullshit. Chorus 4x
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