Keep thinkin I'm candy till ya fukkin skull get popped
And ya brain jump out the top like Jack-in-da-box
In the hood summer time is the killing season
It's hot out this bytch that's a good 'nuff reason
I've seen gangsta's get religious when they start bleedin
Sayin "Lord, Jesus Help Me" cause they ass leakin
When they window roll down and that A.K. come out
You can squeeze ya lil handgun until you run out
And you can run for ya back-up
But them machine gun shells gone tear ya back up
God's on ya side, shyt I'm aight wit that
We reload them clips and come right back
It's a fact homie, you go against me ya fukked
Behind that twinkle in ya eyes, I can see the bytch in you
nikka you know the streets talk
So they'll be no white flags and no peace talks
I got my back against the wind, I'm down to ride till the sun burn out
I done made myself a millionaire by myself
Now, shyt changed motherfukker I can hire some help
I done heard about the 50 grand you put in the hood
But ya shooter fin'nin to get get shot it won't do 'em no good
With a pistol I define the definition of pain
If you survive ya bones'll still fukkin hurt when it rain
Oh you a pro at playin battleship well this ain't the same
Lil homie this is a whole different type of war game
See the losers and up in shackles of motherfukkin chains
Or laid out in the streets leakin out they brains
