South Central Cartel - No Get Bacc lyrics

[VERSE 1: Young Prod] If any crew wanna mad-dog, if you look it's on I got this .44 chrome spittin at your dome Comin from the shoulders, droppin muthaf**as like boulders Rollin with my chip Motorola Blazer all f**ed but I ain't walkin Head feelin light cause my stomach startin to talkin As I roll by hoes yellin out: "Star!" But I yell back: "b**h, look at the car!" You seen me in a video, don't think that I hustle Stressin so bad, make me wanna jack Russell I dropped outta high school askin where the money at 'Man, it's in the rap game' - now it ain't no get back 'Homie f** that, where y'all from, loc, you bangin? I thought the Cartel were some 87 gangsters' Look homie, I'm a player and I ain't got time Two steps back, buck you dead in your eye, eye, eye... [CHORUS: Young Prod] If you trip off your mouth and my strap's in my lap It ain't no get-back, prepare for your casket Nutshell Nazi, the S.C.C. Persist to get pissed on, get yo buster a** on [VERSE 2: Prode'je] Should I bomb? Yo, let's commence to k** a p**y-a** n***as talkin bout they pullin triggers We got the back streets sowed up Live on luck will leave your a** f**ed, n***a, hold up You pickanannies be talkin plenty bullsh** But you ain't sh** when it's time to get with Real n***as from the S.C. I peel your cap off n***a, now turn that muthaf**in rap off 5'8" with a big stick Muthaf**as try to run but I'm comin at that a** quick I'm so bad I kick my own a** You disrespect me and I be gettin wreck just like a plane crash Dash, I have your a** burnin like some hash Ash, you see a mash, then you hear the blast Ask the Prod what that be like I tell you gangster, now you know it's all to the g right [CHORUS] [VERSE 3: Havikk the Rhime Son] It's ninety-muthaf**in-six, gees finna ride and slide Cartel Gang down to hoo-bang in a five n***as gettin twisted but I don't give a f** about a buster Cartel till I die, muthaf**a A n***a dressed thuggish, postin with the heater Decapitate yo dome with this nine millimeter 'draulics on amp, the a** is on call Hit the second switch, b**h, post my d's on the wall Chuck T's posted on the curb 'yac in my palm and I'm chokin off that herb I swerve back to the 9 block, pager goin wicked Check my phone book for a b**h who wanna kick it Diarrhea-at-the-mouth muthaf**as better ease up S.C.G.'s regulatin fools g's up Rhime Son, n***a, on deck puttin it down for the set, loc Mobbin murder deep with my kinfolk [CHORUS: repeated till end]