No medallions, dreadlocks, or black fists it's just
that gangster glare, with gangster raps
that gangster shyt, that makes the gang of snaps, uhh
word to the motherfukkin streets
and word to these hyped ass lyrics and dope beats, that I
hit ya with that I, get ya with
as I groove in my four on deez, hittin the switches
bytches relax while I get my proper swerve on
bumpin like a motherfukker ready to get my serve on
but before I hit the dope spot
I gotta get the chronic, the Reme Martin and my soda pop
Now I'm smellin like indo-nesia
bus stop full of fly bytches and skeezers
on my dikk, cause my four on hit
pancake front and back, side to side and all that shyt
So when I crawl I comes correct
Now, if your bytch in my shyt, it's your bytch you check nikka
Now let the Chevrolet slide
As I dip a nikka trip to the south side, yeah
(Rollin in my six-fo')