celly cel – the g filez lyrics
– send corrections to the typist
eye for an eye ride or you die won’t leave the house unless i’m strapped up
i might get backed up in the traffic
n-gg-s is dumping on me when i got my zapper
creeping up on me
and i got one hand on the wheel
one hand on the steel
trying to break a n-gg- for skrill
and i’m ridin’ wit sharp shootin’ skills
funk season, whatever the reason
i’m dealing wit drama
send me one of them mangie -ss n-gg-s
runnin’ home, cryin’ to mama
so i kick the door to eliminate the whole situation
f-ckin’ wit me me will ended up
having his family eraseded
face it, no charges leaving the body behind until
you better respect game
bow down when real n-gg-s bail through yo hood
but won’t be caught up in a twist
flash on us unless you end up sleeping wit the fish
seamin’ shoes, lady singing the blues, them sad ballads
fried chicken, collad greens, and potato salads
surrounded them by [?] of family members cryin’
eye for an eye’ you ride or you die
x 4
eye for an eye
you ride or you die ride or you die
n-gg-s get at cha and run back at them
but let them bullets fly
he got the mac one-o
and moved nice on the piggies
hit ’em up and buck
and leave them struck when i’m tipsy
ain’t no love for the true thugs
that die for this sh-t
wit 150 round drum ride for this sh-t
f-ck the hard hats end locs, p-ss the fo fo
and watch me smoke them hoes
like the last hit of indo, and fo’ sho
i smash and blast, n-gg-, when i’m provoked
with a doe of platinum c-ke
i holds down a fort
why you smiling for
these n-gg-s playing games on the street
that’s where they meet the heat
they sweep they -ss up off of they feet
this ain’t no fairy tale
you f-ckin’ with cel
hit the scenes wit machines
if you want my team
it ain’t no in between
seventeen through your temple
when your crossing the realest n-gg-s
to spit this killa sh-t on the mic
and make the world feel us
hit ’em wit rounds [?]
[?] of hollows then we follow
n-gg-s to they spine
and chop they -ss up
wit fully-auto’s
x 4
i ain’t no actor b-tch
my life is worser than the movies
for real though, from steel toes to my uzi
pushin’ impala s.s.’s
benz, beamers, to lamborginis
and chase my strip down wit x.o., henn, and remi
rolex on my wrist
hundred dollar bill’s crisp
i pull the blunt from my lip
then the 4-5 from my hip and spit
the incredible medical or hard core
the deadliest medacine gas ever set off in a war
westcoast’s the spot
where we lock our million dollar doors
survival in h-ll, packing heat
ducking from them
i’m just a thug n-gg-
step on your street and draw my heat
and then i plug n-gg-s
i be a g from the g.b.c.
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