kxng crooked - ridin' wit the blower lyrics
[intro]
my brother dizz made this
what’s happenin’, dizz?
yo what up cob?
it’s bk, what up?
billy donahue, what up?
sonny black
we back
oh yeah, gas pedal sh-t
bark at ya dawg
[verse]
it’s the chuck taylor trafficker that’ll f-ck your favorite rapper up
paint on the truck is black as something made in africa
pullin’ up, i’m fading half of ya
guns’ll made him back it up
murder rate per capita
increases when i clap at an
actor that’s f-ckin’ actin’ up
y’all be on some beef sh-t
i be on some peace sh-t, some third eye g sh-t
knowledge with the street sh-t, chakra and the chi sh-t
ancient secrets with god’s signature on the leaflet
peep it, we keep the streets lit
from the home of the criminals
in a different dimension where generals send the sentinels
every sentence in sicko mode
every lyric sticking a sickle in your mental
while the instrumental givin’ your temple holes
chinchilla drippin’ at shows look like i’m pimping hoes
flippin’ chickens, my n-gga, not trippin’ on no tickets sold
but that’s the old me, i’m new and improved
i’m moving with rules, these dudes are confused
used to swallow bottles while gettin’ more boos than the apollo crowd
now i go sober, hit the booth, hit the fuse
i’m hidin’ from liquor stores
my spit’ll cut up your vocals, it’s liable to split your cords
my saliva is liquid swords, my rivals’ll hit the floor
i’m ridin’ in 64’s
cl-ssic as t la rock on vinyl, this sh-t is yours
i’m climbin’ in different floors, kickin’ doors down
judge tried to throw the book at me, i’m bookin’ tours now
winnin’ in two courts, allen i. up in georgetown
it was the art of war when i took your wh0r- down
ray and ghost sh-t, traphouse boomin’ to mars
purple tape sh-t, but i’m only built for cuban cigars
main man, you b-st-rds should stop frontin’
swap meet flannel on, fasten the top b-tton
i dash when the cops comin’, but i’m masked, and when we gon’ start blastin’
and stop runnin’, get har-ssed and pop somethin’, homie
pickin’ my vest up, thinkin’ the pigs might pistol my chest up
with hollow tips rippin’ my flesh up
givin’ giant holes to the next n-gga lil’ tesla
f-ck designer clothes, if i’m strapped, n-gga, i’m dressed up
throwin’ the west up, let ’em know i’m in the streets
sick apostle spittin’ gospels over the illest beats
and false prophets, stop it, don’t wanna hear you preach
might have to blast the pastor, word to k!llah priest
[outro]
west coast n-ggas
hundred dollar billas
n-gga smokin’ on some k!lla
and we ridin’ with a blower
ship you off and get you to’ up
better act like you know us, n-gga
see you next week
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