Some think that I'm a flake, but I'm no fake nigga
'Cause I take a bitch, make him a witch
And burn his ass at the stake
With the .44 mag, it's so simple, put it to his temple
Fuck it, I give a nigga permanent dimples
Easin' up on a phat flow, but I'll let your ass go
The products still hot like Tabasco
Brand New Heavies on the tracks, G Rap on the wax
Cold bumpin', got motherfuckers doin' jumpin' jacks
You motherfuckers lost it
I bake your ass like a cake
And all y'all flakes get frosted
'Cause when G Rap is on the mix
Niggas start shittin' bricks and turn into chicks with small dicks
So if it's
Lyrics with a live band (Yo, this shit is funky)
No, fuck funky, the shit hit the fan
See, if you're steppin' to my set, you niggas get wet
Nah, fuck it, it's just a motherfuckin' death threat

Yeah, I got you bitches on lockdown
You niggas get knocked down
You're runnin' 'cause I'm gunnin' your block down, punk
So save the bitch riff 'cause my four-fifth lifts
I'm tossin' stiffs off fuckin' cliffs
Get close, I got you on scope, you walkin' on thin rope
So I'mma shoot 'em up like dope
'Cause to make my notes, I'mma cut throats
Bodies are thrown off boats and do a deadman's float
Straight down a river
Heh! With a bullet inside his motherfuckin' liver
Another hooker got thrown out
Stepped right into the crossfire and got her brains blown out
So you niggas better duck
'Cause when my pumps full of buckshots, I don't give a fuck
You think you're down with the murder guys?
Bullshit, say hello to that dirt you're gonna fertilize
You wonder why the area stunk?
Homicide just found ten bones inside car trunks
When they opened the other trunks that was closed
Full of five unidentified John Does
All found dead on arrival
'Cause I pulled up slowly and made 'em Holy like Bibles
They find a letter and cassette
Read and said it's just a motherfuckin' death threat

Sendin' bodies to a morgue for a freezin'
I got the motherfuckin' finger on a trigger 'cause it's nigga season
A punk tried to drop me
I left his body sloppy so they can't perform an autopsy
Dig a hole for the bitch
And put all of his pieces and bits inside a ditch
Yo, you don't think you're goin' under?
I got a bullet with ya name, ya address, and ya phone number
So if you wanna play games
I'm blowin' you the fuck out the frame
You tried to front and got murdered last night
So now you're floatin' to the motherfuckin' light
So I'mma step to your grave and make a toast
And start shootin' at your motherfuckin' ghost
So may the Lord be with ya
'Cause I ain't no saint and I don't paint no pretty pictures
It ain't nothin' but bloodshed
Stains of brains on the rug and lead slugs in your head
You wanna make me upset?
Ha! Then I'mma promise you a motherfuckin' death threat

Copyright: CONCORD MUSIC PUBLISHING LLC, Songtrust Ave, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Andrew Levy, Jan Kincaid, Nathaniel Wilson, Simon Bartholomew