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m.v.l.l. - fuck niggaz lyrics

m.v.l.l. (ft. a.b., ces, cron hypnostein, and roy rukkus) – “f-ck n-ggas”
[emcee(s): a.b., ces, cron hypnostein, and roy rukkus]
[producer(s): will tell]

[verse 1: a.b.]
ayyo, you can’t take the heat if your gun too small, so you
could bring on your clique—ayyo, i’ll run through y’all
i’m trying to fill up with bricks ‘cause i done come too far
got hit up with a 9, but no mental scar. but, still
a n-gga tried to k!ll me in a rental car. don’t sweat it
yo, cron, don’t let that n-gga get too far
got a mob, got heat, and the squad don’t retreat
plus the god don’t sleep, so you could f-ck around and creep
lay you six feet deep. let your b-tch [?]
so place your bets on me ‘cause can’t no one see we
it’s only one m-v. don’t even mention me
y’all n-ggas tempting me to bust the lead with speed

[verse 2: ces]
oh, you’s a thug? oh, really? then where’s your gun?
and if you ain’t p-ssy, n-gga, then why’d you run? i done
broke down cats about the size of son
i gets chicks, sip l1cks, bust five for fun
cliques spit quick sh-t. don’t try me, son
hit your b-tch, then i split through the lobby, son
spit fifths at your clique for a hobby, son
so if your man dead, by ces it’s probably done. y’all n-ggas
want it, god? i’ll commit a robbery, son
and come through like rambo with his army gun
if a rapper said he battled me, i probably won
hot flows got hoes wanting to slop me, son
fo’-fo’ snub-nosed hit you in your armpit, son
better stay out of arm reach, son. got n-ggas like
“i’m sorry, son.” bogart me, son?
hardly, son. i’ll leave you dead on a harley, son

[hook: roy rukkus] (x2)
f-ck n-ggas. f-ck sucker–ss c-nt n-ggas
f-ck ducking bullets—you might have to duck n-ggas
plus n-ggas act like i won’t truck n-ggas
f-ck ducking bullets—you might have to duck n-ggas

[verse 3: cron hypnostein]
simmer to a slight boil
to a cover packed in tight soil. is it fright for you?
he wouldn’t fight for you. son is right for you
‘cause remember in the tight coil?
baking-hot, face-down in a vacant lot
with a faceless glock appraising your knot
gazing, you wishing the days’ll stop, and your
ways’ll stop, wondering if they’re playing or not
ain’t been praying a lot in a game
kind of hot. if you get got, say no name
and stay calm, say psalms, and sing on
call him cron napalm. [?]
[?]. you like them cajun
‘til half your head gone. just suggestion:
don’t want to f-ck up my profession. guess wrong
be dead-wrong, all gone. son
move on. it’s been proved on
peace. i’m gone in a black yukon xl
cron excel, propel in ways won’t imagine
fast, blind fury in action

[verse 4: roy rukkus]
y’all n-ggas running lip. do you know who you f-cking with?
you want to flip? son, i’ll bundle fists and crush your hip
f-ck your b-tch up in your whip, then puff a spliff
come unequipped with no gun or clip and bust your sh-t
so suck a d-ck. f-ck this sh-t. i never wanted
to get out the p-ssy, but this b-tch who wanted me
to get out and push me, so i stuck my head out
and look, see a h-llhole these f-ckers put out to cook me
school? buck 50—i just cut out. it’s hooky
get high, go home, dig out this c0key
chick, make her spit out the gookie sh-t
make her love the kid, never want to get out—she hooked, b
rip out her crook spleen in the snap of
the finger. get stabbed with a hanger. gag you and
hang ya. packing a banger. but don’t act
like i won’t bang your -ss with a razor
pray to the lord, send you back to your savior
murder the n-gga with your back that’ll save ya
pull you out your act full of anger with a -ss
crack in your g-y mug, sn-tching your paper
i’m like a chick with aids—you don’t want to f-ck with me
before i f-ck with these sucking-meat n-ggas, i’ll
be a bum in jean dungarees, mad
hun-g-ry in hungary, living under trees
getting stung by poisonous bugs and bees
sting leave you so weak, you can’t even f-cking see
to make a long story short, i don’t give a f-ck
what you ripping. talk sl1ck, you’ll get a couple of whippings
f-ck n-ggas

- m v l l lyrics

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