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c.m.l., wop dell & toohda band$ - club house killers lyrics

[intro]
(funk or die)
(mmm, teoilikethis)
(heavyweight, n+gga)

[verse 1]
i’m beefin’ with some blockers, man, they gettin’ at me sideways
i’m lurkin’, tryna flip a sprinter van up on the highway
i’m sub+zero with this chopper, freeze a n+gga like an ice tray
can’t n0body call my phone and tell me sh+t, i do it my way
check my resume, i’m thugged out
stars in the drug house
every time they say it’s beef with me, they run the clubhouse
don’t let me say it’s beef, they hit your street and blow your mug out
the way i work this drac’, they’d probably hide me in a nuthouse
they speak on me so freely, they don’t think i know they police
they disrespect, but when i say sh+t back, them folks get on me
i don’t do no back and forth, f+ck you and your og
i’m the type to play it cool and smoke you on the lowkey
these soft+ass n+ggas picking sides and they don’t even know me
i told the bros whoever crack your skull can have my rollie
i’m tired of n+ggas speakin’ on my business like they with that
ain’t n0body safe, this baby k ain’t got no kickback
they thought that boy was sick until the clique gave him a sh+t bag
we stepped on your stepper, on 3+0, you know who did that
these scary n+ggas meet some scary n+ggas, then they clique up
if he running, shoot him in his stomach, n+ggas ain’t gon’ get up
when it’s going down, nail him to the ground, he can’t sit up
old police+ass n+gga talkin’ loud, shut that sh+t up
these n+ggas talk just like a b+tch, how you sit down with a snitch?
n+ggas actin’ like they active, gettin’ extorted by the crips
on the clique
[verse 2]
yeah, come and prove it
you would think i work at fedex, all these packs that i be moving
i said, “pull up with a crate,” ’cause percs and drank, i be abusing
and before i hit the booth, i pour a four
b+tch go through my phone like, “who is this?” b+tch, i don’t know
grew up watching auntie hit the dope, she d+mn near croaked
i really love your ho, don’t gotta ask, she give me throat
and if that lil’ b+tch broke, can’t give me cash, she gotta go
i’m done shootin’ threes, get to the paint like i’m vince carter
stank b+tch sellin’ p+ssy, that’s a fish market
n+gga need to work at walmart, he always miss targets
lookin’ stupid, rollin’ down the window like, “this b+tch farted”
peanut b+tter on the bread, i like the crunchy kind
in the booth, i pour a deuce, now it’s punch+in time
bro rock extended clips, but sh+t, it’s nuts on mine
lakers losing every d+mn game, i be like, “f+ck lebron”

[verse 3]
ayy, we get los, if n+ggas there, we droppin’ every shot
i’m ridin’ ’round with dracy on me, n+gga, f+ck the glock
we’ll drop you in front the feds, n+gga, f+ck the cops
before i wrote a rap, i was fiendin’, tryna spin a block
you ain’t got no bodies on that side, them ain’t your f+ckin’ opps
dog got his head tapped, he left without the pop
only time these n+ggas droppin’ somethin’ is when they sippin’ wock’
a hundred fifty shots inside this lo’, it’s just me and wop
he survived a headshot, i wish they punched his clock
dj took his whole kit off, where was your f+ckin’ glock?
ridin’ with a b+tch that give me drops, she just blew my socks
she a real tweaker, she be cheesin’ when she see the opps
what’s+his+name just gave them n+ggas drop, i told that n+gga yop
f+ck them fully switches, when we slide, we hit they blocks with chops
they put his picture on tv, he on the 6 o’clock
any n+gga f+ckin’ with hayes money, we gon’ get ’em dropped

- c m l wop dell toohda band lyrics

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