| Lyrics: | All:
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.
Tony Tone:
If you're down to
glide and slide on the Clair, then let's ride. Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when
you come
just bring your guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon' have fun with ya. So,
nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, slangin' llello.
It all remains the same.
Wish:
Step and you're catchin' some buckshots.
Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock. Mo Thug, what's up? Nigga, get drug,
put 'em in
the mud, pop and I can't stop, now. Niggas that I thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How does it
feel? And nigga we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin', I'm buckin'
'em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don't test my hood.
Tombstone:
A first degree murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch,
puttin' a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't fuck with
them niggas off the
nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin' the crime and murderin' every time. Niggas beware,
'cause
here come the Clair mobbin' like some soldiers. Watch me fold ya for actin' like
somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with
that nine shot, givin' props to the double glock.
Flesh:
Pump, pump, when I
let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme the goodies, and nigga me dash. I reach for the gauge and
mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, don't test nuts. Your luck's fucked. Your
feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin' off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin' up for
your ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin'
them chop chops. We
rippin' them guts with buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.
Krayzie:
You better believe that we runnin' this thug style: Krayzie, Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh,
Wish, them wicked, now. We straight off the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now.
East 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
have your pop,
niggas be trippin' and flippin' as soon they get high. One-eighty-seven, you're caught in a murder.
Niggas up to
no good. Po-po. Fuck no. They never could fuck with a thug-ho.
Pop, pop, givin' up shots to the double-glock, glock.
Mo! Hart:
Nothin' but
them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin' bucks of lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin' pump eruptions,
nickel trip and shut
and fuck 'em down, buckin' them coppers down, round after round after
round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain't no sound, just the demons
screamin', "Rest in peace. I guess you got to suffer." Ready to dip, hollow point tip,
got
your wig split, and made your body rupture, hunt my victims on a mission, flippin', livin' on a
darker side, creepin' on your
homicide. Let my nuts and my gauge hang low. Now, walk on by.
All:
[Boogy Nikke on the mic, right.]
Boogy Nikke:
Thuggin' through my thuggish-ass hood at night with my pipe. Thuggin' down the double-glock, tryin'
to get my serve on,
watchin' my back while six-five try to roll on. But one to the sucka's
head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the reefer smoke all up inside me.
Layzie:
We jumpin' up out from the hood. We bailin'. We thuggin'. We lookin'
like crooks. The terror be fatal, ready to roll, now we
willing and able, rollin' with
Ruthless, bitch, better check my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight through the ten-five is the
soldiers' ghetto. Nigga, don't take the
wrong turn; you will enter the hood, and we're
splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland
Browns, the Dawg Pound home, it's on.
Sin:
Never get in the mix of a Clair
player; you're liable to get your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, 'cause them thugs sendin'
them slugs, leavin' 'em off in the cut in a puddle of blood, say what? Don't make me go in my
trench. Nigga, ya got me bent,
all fucked up. Your luck's up. Now you gotta get sent to your
gravesite as John Doe for fuckin' with those...
Gates:
It's them thugs
runnin' amuck all night, but a slug up in you. The territory never divide, go nationwide with the
buck, buck. So
where you at? Where you at? I'm strapped and ready to snap and yank a nigga's
neck back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on
the Clair to tear a round) 'fore somebody gets stuck. You still won't
want some, bitch, but
what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck |
