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buddha monk and popa wu - o.k. corral lyrics

five shots in the chamber
(this is serious n-gga, word up!
get your -ss murdered) what?
(it’s boom!) no games, mission accomplished
yea, yea, yea, yea
(mindin all day, every day
yo, y’all n-ggas know what time it is)
my jungle never sleeps, i’m one who never sleeps
the tongue forever breathe fire, the gun forever speak
f-ggots, sh-t they forever leak
the saga of the bl–dy sheik, sweet drips from my real peak
i am widow son, harim, my guns travel through twenty-three million miles
of dry land, disappear from the world, hide beneath the sands of iran
thug p-ssion, slugs crashin through your triceps and biceps
when i step, straight baller, got somethin for all y’all
mystic don spits chrome, daddy rose be a warrior
stick y’all n-ggas up, while we on tour with ya
ding-ding, get in the ring n-gga, sh-t
daddy wanna brawl with ya
speak to the pain and all n-ggas, court took your four n-ggas
ghetto ballin and shot callers for them crossed, standin tall n-ggas
get stank, holdin bank with gangsta figures
that i’m four shanks, low triggas rank
to get digits, commited to gettin aquitted
streets sh-tted on, y’all b-tches kiss when i spit it on
sin in dreams, scheme on, rid the scenery, lean on
teams heat beams on your shirts, skirt, phillipean chicks
sh-t that that’s real, sh-t i’m still with
peal ’em in silence, brief nudity, graphic violence, escape the silence
triumph, fly lumps, trumps bullet hit a wheel
for this score, steel, into different flavor, for real, for real
fourth fist-kid, automatically bubba, banana clip
big bang theory, slug walk, half a shotty
infrared lead tongue, semi-auto flow
gag a pig, gamma ray day, still wars
hollow holiday, four-four jaws
four pound, child style, three-nine lines
tec graft, double-barrel vest threat
six-shooter, german luger humour
black bop, gat box, ak grenade spray
mac pen, spit ten, callico poem chrome
ya highness creep in silence, hustl with rap sh-t
verbal crack, the stack, works with a marijuana habit
been on the strip so long, still don’t have sh-t
can i have this? give a dude twenty-five of a buck
and that’s it, control blocks, hotties pumpin
little bro’ like shorties in these lobbies thumpin
we posted up ready to body somethin
off the roof, with look-outs, ghetto cook-outs
can’t trust a soul, all the crooks out
plus the police, for dough release on their whole fleet
never throw heat, roll deep, the code of the streets
at night, hoes creep in ac’s, sleep with a mac
peeps in the back, comrades, approach beef with the gat
as the world turns slowly, the dutchy burns slowly
we’re in front of the tunnel schemin on some rollies
brownsville representative, rose family capo
prince of rocko and pic-sso, impulse like locks blow
we hold it down like al pacino and billy blanco
run up in your (?), put the glock in your tonsils
bust you in your face, open up the safe
chico where them kilos?
run up in your spot, with the stalking cap while you choppin crack
runnin through the projects with the nine ruger out
movin with the loot out, brownsville shoot-out
n-gga just pop ’em back
chickens on the benches, snitches blowin the spot up
the punk cop with two-shot, play dead and got up
popped up, bustin with the glock up
tore the whole block up, one-eight-seven on an undercover
rockaway train station, gang affiliation, n-gga
what? yo, ‘9-8, yea, yo…
(brook-lawn, shacronz)
tre’ spits, n-gga {brown cavemen
we heartless baby, in this rap sh-t}
straight shots, rose cats, all day, everyday
{uk, n-gga, call the manes, n-gga}
what the f-ck you doin baby? {call the manes}
we get the f-ck up {call the manes}
what? {call the names}

- buddha monk and popa wu lyrics

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