One Mo Pound - Brotha Lynch Hung, D-Dubb

I was rollin' through the hood one day

Thought shit den calmed down

«Gang-bangin'» den played out by the years since I den been around

Ain’t talked to nobody from my block

Cause all my niggas is locked up

And it’s been all ever I seen wit a guillotine

So I was in the «Cut Supreme»

Fifteen grams and some «greenodine»

Ain’t seen a block nigga since

But now I be off that killa green

(Mothtafuckas ain’t got no love for me)

(Niggas wanna put some slugs in me)

So I’m 007, murder redrum wit my three fifty seven

Brotha Lynch Hung, but the bitches call me Kevin

They try to make me think they close to me, but Neb’in

You know I gots to (say high) stay high, keep recipts for alibis

And the meat they ate from them drive-bys ain’t mine

Cause mine’s a supe' desguise

As I swoop the skies high off that buddha

Tah mixed the cusche and the purple hairs

And it got me high

(Now I’m rollin on the river)

Labeled Mr. FedEx

(Cause them bodies I deliver)

Got to get to my next plot

Unlock the freezer get the meat for the «rocks»

And heat the heat cause it’s the «nine-neb'in»

And it’s hot den a mothafucka

(All day everyday) I’mma stay loaded up, «krondike» in the trunk

And a pound full of James Brown

Cause I gots to get loaded so hold up soldier

The count goes

(One more pound of smoke and it’s guaranteed to make a mothafucka choke)

(Ain't got no down ass bitch at my side

But I got some bomb ass weed in my ride)

Nothin but notches, booches

Fill my pockets, hit 'em up everyday, gotta have my pay

The ganjay got me high now I’m paranoida den these booches

Filthy rich, I’mma take the loot

And the dig a ditch, tell your neighborhood bitch

To miss me with that ho shit

Cause I’mma get this nigga when he surface

And that’s on everything I love, I gots to split his wig

Opened up the little blue packet, stung him like a yellow-jacket

Rib cage heavily padded, hit him with the automatic shells

Send him to hell express from his mailing address

We got his name, for sho', then we went to the house and did that shit

I know I said I do it alone in the past, everybody in the neighborhood knew

Somebody betta jack his ass up like a six-four impala

You floatin' on dirty water

Pack your shit up nigga like it’s on only you and your?

woda-goda?

Track your ass down, smoke your last pound

And the count goes

(If you smell any smoke it’s just me and the homies gettin' blown)

And I was late gettin' home, intoxicated

Fight with my old lady

She was comin at me unreal, hit the blunt now she’s animated

Motivate through you like a foggy mist

You can hold me in your chest-plate like that nitro hit

First Degree told me if the weed can talk

It’ll talk some shit, gotta get me an underspot

Make me a Hemp Museum like B-Legit

I’m tryin to bump my head on the moon

Live so high up in the mountains eatin' snake meat, fried raccoons

With a attitude I need food to eat up

Smoke a fat blunt on my couch with my feet up

Top notch programs, DOS mode Windows 95 upgrade siccmade

Stay paid til the day in the ground I lay, I’mma stay loaded up

In my trunk I got the blow you up and it’ll blow you up

And the count goes