Justus - Blacksox lyrics

[Intro: JT] Another G-Man Stan production The originator of this 808 sh** in the Bay area You got your boy JT the Bigga Figga Thuggin it out with my young n***a the Game, and my homey Bluechip Blacksox, oh boy! Hooked up with Get Low Records Puttin this sh** together, my n***a [Verse 1: JT] It ain't a n***a in the game that could hold me down I've been independent forever so they know me now And I'm the cat they gotta find when they wanna get signed You wanna get your paper right you gotta study my grind I'm like Rush in "Krush Groove," a n***a that bust moves Right out, and tuck tools, bullets that bust dudes Ain't no beef in the briefcase, just beef for Pete's sake We round up cats, to beat 'em in a street race We count paper up, to make a n***a change his plans They under weight so they ain't gettin off they gram You mad at my boys, cause we choppin 'em in They make twenty then the Fig want 10 That's the rules that the Get Low, play by The block boys stay high, California stock with K-5 It's the rules that the Get Low play by Them block boys stay high, the California K-5 [Hook: The Game] Huh, it's the Blacksox doin a joint together The whole world stoppin to listen, ol' breakers poplockin to this And white boys headboppin in 6's, n***as boxin in prison sh** bang hard like a conjugal visit And the game ain't big enough for n***as so move over Matter fact, move out, we takin over Them boys is comin, and they aimin straight for the neck The B-L-A, C-K, S-O-X [Verse 2: Bluechip] Yo, yo, well it's the B dot L dot, you know the rest Wanted by the feds, hated by the ATF You can catch me at the DuPont Inn, two dykes swallowin gin Shorty s**ed me out of my Timbs My bad, that's your wife? f** your life Anyway, I heard you workin for vice You ain't real man you hide behind ice Youse a impostor, snatch him off the roster Always live by the rule, get dough, or die trying Hardcoded into shinin Pa** the bucket now I'm back on bet it If, beef was erased man my tool gon' finish Never been the loudmouth type Sugar Shane of this rap sh**, southpaw when the mac spit Listen rookie, don't make me mad boy Or you gon' be like Big, a dead Bad Boy [Hook] [Verse 3: The Game] Huh, n***as think they got the game sewed, yeah right I'm air tight, fresh in them Air Nikes If the Navi outside, I might be there Black hoodie, black 9, black wifey airs Rock guns like Caddy trunks, keep a spare You see the lump under the Iceberg fleece and gear And when the beef cook, I'ma put the piece to your head And if you see a white truck that mean yo' sheets is dead Then I'm goin goin, back back To the block to dump the bucket and jump in the drop n***as know I'm good with the Glock, they call me Chick Hearns Cause if the game on knot, I'm callin the shots I'll wear a shiny suit for a minute like I'm The LOX Then get gangster with a swap meet bag and a Jordan box And when I die, bury me with the Glock, and a bucket of shells In case n***as want drama in hell [Hook]