Testi Calico - Kurupt

Calico

Fire it up, nigga! Pentagon riders What’s up Bootleg?\nWhat’s up, caz?\nKurupt, Young Gotti, Neil Paul, Vitti Stallone, what’s cracking, biiitch?\nDog-pound Gangsters, we’re going to bash on these busters\nLook, first thing I do, is roll my coo\nSwoop up, scoop, and hit it and dip too\nShine bright, move them bricks\nGive me all the motherfucking money, you can get, bitch!\nLet’s make this a trade nigga\nPaper or fame nigga\nLet’s make this a trade\nFor what?\nPaper or fame!\nCough back the\nThrust, bust the heater!\nSeparating everything I’m seeing\nI’m a fire extremist, chems are on all shelves\nSpraying like emphysema, singing Calico clean-up\nAnd I’ve got a talent that’s singing\nAnd I’ma pierce niggers, like needles and syringes!\nI’m nothing but a fool\nLet me show you exactly what I’m living for!\nDoors, four double 4's\nThat I launch 20 missiles that fly like Concords!\nDog-pound motherfucking gangsters is what we ride for, nigga!\nCryp won’t do it, what?\nGang-bangs do it, what?\nSlang can’t do it\nThis is some real murder music!\nWhat?\nBust your guns forward\nWhat?\nWhere’s the money, show it!\nAnd if you claim you’re rapping, then\nBitch you better flow it!\nI just want you to know, that DGP share a family\nWe be straight G’s!\nKiller, killer, killer!\nLook, I’ve got a dangerous mind, strangers don’t believe it\nI never leave it in places, the FED dogs can retrieve it!\nFuck that nickel-plated, muffle up!\nMurder any hustler, born\nCocaine juggler, known to flip balls\nWhen I’m down South, I’m known to pimp ho’s\nWhen I’m out in Cali, I’m rolling in six fours\nI’m hitting switches, fucking mad bitches\nRolling on foes!\nMamma had a killer drug dealer\nLook at what mamma made!\nOne less in juvenile, I dropped out of 8th grade!\nGrass for my nigga, grass in the dog-pound!\nNever put the guns down, representing Flint town!\nAnybody that didn’t know that I’m a problem\nSomebody warn them about us, before we revolve on!\nAlways outnumbered, never outgunned\nWe’re the realest niggers under the Sun!\nDayton Family!\nHey bitch, you better call a coroner\nMurder’s ya'\nYou won’t lose your life, dissing voices\nthem Rasta’s set their bugs\nOn my meager sack of drugs\nYou’re in a peril, bitch, we’ve come\nDon’t talk, just pull them plugs!\nMethyl left no\nTrust myself like emphasis\nMamma had a nigga, bitch I’m pulling at your residence!\nDon’t nobody know my name\nCan’t know me, don’t know my game!\nI overdose you, like them needles sticking in your veins\nDiamonds in the fucking wood\nIn my hood ain’t nothing' but shoes!\nWe don’t give a fuck! We live for money or them open goods!\nCrime ain’t in the streets before\nKillers say they’ll never talk\nYou won’t share the tyrannical life that a nigga stalks!\nLook, me and Shoestring, all blue shoelaces\nGoing down the highway, money by the briefcases\nDPG; Dayton Family tree\nBootleg down in Michigan, where the G’s be!\nIt ain’t no future\nAnd this is what you punk motherfuckers need!\nIt’s just a a little G shit for your ho’s\nRolling down the streets from Calico!