Brotha Lynch Hung - Don't Stop lyrics

[C-Bo] First off we the mutha f**in' Thug Lords Now for all you n***as bangin', that mutha f**in' West Coast like n***a? You know what I'm sayin? And fa sho no lie 29th Street Crip Gang n***a, C-Bo holdin' nothin' back Yukmouth, Spice 1 and we do it live, for the world it's still f** off You know what and we in that you know what I'm sayin? And this how we handle business, n***a From the early 80's to these 2 G's, boy Huh, We blaze em up with AK's, double my clip and we dip Set trip and get hit, flip Crip or get zipped Run with the Crips, catch me clumsy in the 6 6 rag invertable slide divertible, murder ya Dead and gone never heard of ya Now we stuffin' lead in the chrome, bout to hurt ya Pack ya down in the earth, we put work in like Mad Dirt Ordainers twistin' like the revolver or the earth f** church, it's a must I burst and curse Yeah I'm a West Coast Bad Boy but a thousand times worst Dime piece, gun in her purse, one in her skirt Cross me, bet ya life that my b**h burst Got me lockin' down the world for the North Pole Too cold to hold lyrics froze my wrist and my hoes Number one Thug Lord, f** wit us! I won't lie the whole world gonna rush wit us, tell em [Chorus:][Yukmouth and Spice 1] Thug Lord n***as boss up and don't stop Thugged out n***as boss up and don't stop Thug Lord n***as boss up and don't stop Thugged out n***as boss up and don't stop Blow! Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang Spice, Yuk and Bo we do the damn thang Blow! Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang Thug Lord n***as we do the damn thang [Spice 1] n***a you listenin' to the B-O-S-S-I-L-I-N-I Yukmouth and C-Bo you know they label us born to die But I pistol slap you and two n***as like 3 Stooges Walk over to the bar and sip on Gin and juice It's just the gangster in me, the thug in me Mug in me and get yo fro pushed back like homie You lil' clown a** n***a walkin' in bozo shoes While my n***as out here doin hits, makin' the news What you think you gon' dodge these bullets like Matrix? Like a condom, I even lay teck on a b**h Now that's some cold sh**, a low lick, a cold hit Leave a n***a at a funeral cryin' with no b**h Some Thug Lord sh** n***a shoot up ya coffin n***as cross game get murdered by bosses Cost's yo mutha f**in' life when you play with the rules They got a n-uh-n***a still singin' the blues [Chorus] [Yukmouth] b**h, next up to bat, Yukmouth destroy the earth with rap Imagine pain worse than that, my n***as coppin' birds of crack Servin' track, co*k back and burst the gat I want my turf back, I hurt that, work that, twerk that Rolex speed spot like Joe Pesci AK ready, we deadly, b**h! I'm like Hannibal, rector eat MC's for breakfast I'm the hardest artist to sign to a label in Texas Yes it's that n***a with the platinum grill full of princesses Invisible set, straight up herbal molescents In less than 60 seconds I k** em leavin' em breathless Don't f** with bread, run outta' state bit records With chin checkers in Benz stretches who win cheddar When fakers scramble liquid hands on n***as with vendettas I'm like 10 fraredders bustin' off at the same time Payed rhymes, I kick sh** off when it's game time [Spice 1] Blow! blow, blididat, blididat! Blow, blow, blididat, blididat, blididat! Blow, blow, blididat, blididat Blididat, blididat blalalalat! Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang Thug Lord n***as we do the damn thang Blow! Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang Spice, Yuk and Bo we do the damn thang [Brother Lynch] I'm hittin' n***as so hard with these you would need Jesus Believe these is yo last days I can see you cleavage That's why I'm f**in' you with the 9 millimeter And I feed a n***a with the heater, he was a long bleeder And he taste good with fajitas, heat em up now eat Member me? n***a that be eatin' raw meat With tiger claw feet so it's easy to creep You leave me no reason but to leave n***as bleedin' Receive grievance with extra Season of the Sicc I pick em off like Brock Marion He kept starin so I took care of him, shot him up with h**n Like malt liquor, to the liver hitter, to the river wit ya Dip ya down deep, down deep Where pirahna heat they eat they meat Heat up they seats, they seats with metal from the Southside ghetto I swear I'll make why'all mutha f**as yellow Tired of diggin' ditches like the GoodFellows Not good with mellow, I keep the meat Keep it hangin' in the closet like pig feet Delete, come with the [Spice 1] Blow! Blalat! Blow, blow, blow blididat Blow! Blalalat! (ahah) Blow! Blididat, blididat! Blow, blow! Blalalalat! Blow (ahaha) Blow!