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feat cousin fik turf talk e 40 – more bass, more treble (feat. cousin fik & turf talk) – e-40 lyrics

b-ss

more b-ss more treble more volume tune the light
more b-ss more treble more (ba-ba-ba-ba-b-ss)
more b-ss more treble more volume tune the light
more b-ss more treble more volume tune the light

this sh-t jamming, come through slamming
look up in my head and you’ll prolly see a cannon
last man standing if n-gg-s get the blastin’
california bear and you looking like salmon
cooler than the phantom with us there’s no fam-ous
truly on the wasted with us they’re no shaming
pump jackie chan and trunk van dam and
hating on the family you slumped in the fam
and my hoes pop on handstands, weed it like the sandman
put’cha -ss to sleep rollin sweets by the grand fam
my n-gg- so high he prolly never ever land
and if he did he prolly end up somewhere in j-pan
with lean in my socky i’m rockley and teriyaki
she wanna sucky sucky got her hands in my jocky (my draws)
like my n-gg- ed, i’m a go hardy
you know what i needs when i turns out the party

more b-ss more treble more volume tune the light

uhh, through the soil just got my whip fixed
trunk sounding like chewbacca try’na get up out that b-tch
stash rocks for a fit, with the ness-naked chick best believe
i’m talking on my sidekick she rollin’ up her weave
i don’t live in this world no mo, i live in the sky
you wanna know why, cause i be high as flying soarer fuel
and i don’t hang around n-gg-s that ain’t cool
i’m talking about to the point where you don’t shallow don’t wanna hang around you
uhh, nice guys finish last and stay broke
bad guys finish first and push dope
i’m a money motivator not a playa hata
brought my chevy from a fiend not the auto trainer
around and b-mped into a fella once po but now he got it made
millionaire now but repeated the seventh grade
uhh, you can tell by the way that this boss walking
i’m a bay boy; i like to hear myself talking

more b-ss more treble more volume tune the light

haters on my line, show a n-gg- no love
bang on my hip, poking out my soul clug
i like side belly, it’s like i cold with it
i’m number 24 when it come to sick wid it
on my screen and eagle pipes h-lla loud
got’cha b-tch -ss sitting on crocodile
got my third eye, looking for the cop core
more b-ss, more b-ss, i’m a rockstar
let the wolfs out, mini move mean
knock, knock, bullets flying through your front screen
i’m still in it, any n-gg- could get it
yet anybody is subjected to get the f-ckin’ bidness
back to the d-gg-ngs, throw em on the cobnut
mo volume that a make the trunk jump
i rock gold teeth, but not sutherlin
i got pink slips, no stuttering

more b-ss more treble more volume tune the light

ba-ba-ba-ba-b-ss

- feat cousin fik turf talk e 40 lyrics

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