All:
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.
Tony Tone:
If you`re down to glide and slide on the Clair, then let`s ride.
Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you come
just bring your guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon` have
fun with ya. So, nigga, don`t get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, slangin` llello. It all remains the same.
Wish:
Step and you`re catchin` some buckshots. Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock.
Mo Thug, what`s up? Nigga, get drug,
put `em in the mud, pop and I can`t stop, now. Niggas that I
thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How does it feel? And nigga
we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin`, I`m
buckin` `em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don`t test my hood.
Tombstone:
A first degree murderin` wig splitter, gravedigger diggin` a
ditch, puttin` a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don`t
fuck with
them niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin`
the crime and murderin` every time. Niggas beware, `cause
here come the Clair mobbin` like some soldiers. Watch me fold
ya for actin` like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that nine shot, givin`
props to the double glock.
Flesh:
Pump, pump, when I let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme
the goodies, and nigga me dash. I reach for the gauge and
mash, yell out one-eighty-seven and blast. Nigga, don`t test
nuts. Your luck`s fucked. Your feelin` wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin` off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin` up for your
ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin`
them chop chops. We rippin` them guts with buckshots, pop, pop.
Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.
Krayzie:
You better believe that we runnin` this thug style: Krayzie,
Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, them wicked, now. We straight off
the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now. East 99 follow me
down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
have your pop, niggas be trippin` and flippin` as soon they get
high. One-eighty-seven, you`re caught in a murder. Niggas up
to
no good. Po-po. Fuck no. They never could fuck with a thug-ho.
Pop, pop, givin` up shots to the double-glock, glock.
Mo! Hart:
Nothin` but them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin` bucks of
lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin` pump eruptions, nickel trip and
shut
and fuck `em down, buckin` them coppers down, round after round
after round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain`t no sound, just the demons screamin`, Rest in peace.
I guess you got to suffer. Ready to dip, hollow point tip,
got your wig split, and made your body rupture, hunt my victims
on a mission, flippin`, livin` on a darker side, creepin` on
your
homicide. Let my nuts and my gauge hang low. Now, walk on by.
All:
[Boogy Nikke on the mic, right.]
Boogy Nikke:
Thuggin` through my thuggish-ass hood at night with my pipe.
Thuggin` down the double-glock, tryin` to get my serve on,
watchin` my back while six-five try to roll on. But one to the
sucka`s head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the reefer smoke all up inside me.
Layzie:
We jumpin` up out from the hood. We bailin`. We thuggin`. We
lookin` like crooks. The terror be fatal, ready to roll, now
we
willing and able, rollin` with Ruthless, bitch, better check
my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight
through the ten-five is the soldiers` ghetto. Nigga, don`t take
the
wrong turn; you will enter the hood, and we`re splitters so cover
your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg Pound home, it`s on.
Sin:
Never get in the mix of a Clair player; you`re liable to get
your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, `cause them thugs
sendin`
them slugs, leavin` `em off in the cut in a puddle of blood,
say what? Don`t make me go in my trench. Nigga, ya got me bent,
all fucked up. Your luck`s up. Now you gotta get sent to your
gravesite as John Doe for fuckin` with those...
Gates:
It`s them thugs runnin` amuck all night, but a slug up in you.
The territory never divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck.
So
where you at? Where you at? I`m strapped and ready to snap and
yank a nigga`s neck back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair
to tear a round) `fore somebody gets stuck. You still won`t
want some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy
with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.
