(First Degree):
Shit done changed, the strip got bigger
To make my ends I got the wheel and the trigger
I get my swerve on with the 80 P liquor
The liquor bring out the nigga in this nigga
Got me huntin` with my musket, barred down with substance
Bringin` my ruckus to the rival fuckas in rival clusters
I`m still givin` birth to perfect joints, I keep it steady
Still mixin` up with skeet sours, I like them heavy
Heavy`ll put a little bass in your voice
Yamps choice, no Rolls Royce but I keep it moist
I keep it saucy, ya bossy bitch talkin` that costly shit
Bossy bitch think she too flossy to trip
I`m First muthafuckin` Degree, not your average,
I`ll have your boulevard hoppin`
Poppin` off when a baller pack a package of suckin`
Fuck you fuckin` up duck, stuck like Chuck, now, now getcha dome in the trunk
As we donut, I dump, I seen too many moons, took the minds of too many bufoons
Fools with no clues that love to watch my aura glisten,
they still don`t listen
I...I got pot that`s hot to trot, can`t stop, won`t stop
I got Lynch Hung in my backseat sniffin` for cops
I receipts of tweed purchase, medical purpose, write off at text time
So ya`ll go home, light the smoke, it`s relax time
Chorus:
Now I apologize for smoke on my mind
I been workin` hard and I got to unwind
About the J.O.A. stayin` in my brain
But I`m seconds away from goin` insane
Now I need to lift away
(Lynch):
Now you niggas know I come sick like a lunatic
Man, they must be high cuz they really don`t know who they fuckin` with
I used to have them all bombed out
Drink Alize wine, then rhyme and smoke tweeds till we dropped out
I got the chop out, no doubt,
cuz if it ain`t about rappin`, gunplay`s gon` happen
Cuz I`m tappin` at yo` window, off that Indo, more sacs than Santana
Better check your antenna on your radio or your stereo or your video
Cuz I`m not that pretty, but in the bedroom I`m critical
You got your chance, now use
Hit you with the Loaded album, coutesty of Siccmade Music
Evidently you got something against me
Don`t you tempt me, minty smells of the 20 sac of Indo, Killafornia`s best
Player haters die a slow death, slow death
CHORUS
(Ice-T):
I don`t wear no Chuck Taylors and don`t sag my pants
But I still lift the switch and make this 64 dance
More niggas with me now than I had in the hood
And they down for whatever and that`s all to the good
Wish you would test my technique and heart, nigga what?
Nigga, fuck that, bitch nigga what? Baby, duck!
What you wanna do now, ya bleedin` from the floor
Nigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no more
That`s how I`m coming 9-6, bitch, rich and mad
Hoes in bikinis, rag Lambroginis, overseer runnin` mad streets
Creepers with beepers and stash spots for glocks
And under car Escobar style, buck wild, you been there, you know the terrain
Niggas go insane, tryin` to get the green
I`m just surviving on the streets with my peeps
And I`m livin` for the day I catch a punk on the creep, yeah
CHORUS
