WHP Beats - Hustlin Ill lyrics

[Hook] Out in Portland where it's pourin' and it's cold And these f**ing Jordan's that I sport are gettin' old So I'm tryna rustle up a couple a mil' Just lookin' for a customer to hustle some ill Grindin' daily, tryna scrape me up some dough And I'm going crazy, some would say I'm on a roll If you f** with me, I'll put my nuts in your grill Just looking for a customer, I'm hustlin' ill [Verse 1: Bourne Reddi] Ok, I'm hustlin ill, boy I'm so f**in real, impeccable with some incredible sk**s Every beat get beheaded, and severed, and k**ed It's me and my brother M-I-K-E, fresh jeans and my new N-I-K-E's A n***a beatin M-E on the M-I-C? Well see, that's just so unlikely Thought about quittin, but who am I kiddin? I'm way too far into this sh** I oughta be spittin, but f** I'm hittin your chick, and I swear I'm too deep in that b**h I'm a beast and they don't do it like I do it They say I'm off the wall, cause my nuts are stapled to it So should I slow the flow down, so I can swag it out? Or pay a visit to your ho down to call you f*ggots out? Put it on YouTube? You choose On my mama, I keep a llama, that's the Emperor's New Groove Everybody wanna talk about guns, but I wanna know who blam Far from a fruit loop, but when it comes to guns - well, I gotta keep two cans You buggin if you think these bustas bustin the steel It's Mike B and Bourne Reddi, b**h we hustlin' ill [Hook] [Verse 2: Mike Bars] I'm so hot, I could melt your swag And when I opened the fridge, I think I fried up an egg and made the milk go bad Put my steez in a pan and then baby I'll cook it slow Want a spice rack full of my swag? Well then baby I might have what you're lookin fo' Yeah, nothing but sk**s, gimme a beat and a couple of bills And I'll mix it, then chop it and package it up and deliver, that's how I be hustlin' ill Baby, yeah I'm tryna get me 10 g's I make ends from my excellence, so I stack dough cuz I'm M.E See, I capitalize from being capital 'I' with two lower case 'L's when I'm hustlin' The cops see the roman numeral 'III', chuck the "dueces", now I'm numero uno when I'm in customs I'm that raw motherf**er, off in the gutter, causin a ruckus, brawl with a gla** full of Jim Beam My balls in your mother, call her my lover, I'll make her dive into this lap like a swim team You got a bit of buzz, but I wouldn't wanna be ya A little aliteration cause I'm hotter than a heata' 'FOP FOP FOP FOP!' - that's an onomatopoeia But mama always taught me better than playing with guns So do what my chainsaw be saying and run [Hook]