Luyện nghe bài hát Shotz To The Double Glock

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.

Tony
If you're down to glide and slide on the Clair, then let's ride. Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but you come
just bring guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon' have fun with ya. So, nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, llello. It all remains the same.

Step and you're catchin' buckshots. Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock. Mo Thug, what's up? Nigga, get drug,
put 'em in the mud, pop and I can't stop, now. Niggas that I thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How it feel? And nigga we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig back. Killin', I'm buckin' 'em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don't my hood.

A first murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch, puttin' a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't fuck with
them niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of committin' the crime and murderin' every time. Niggas beware, 'cause
here come the Clair mobbin' like some soldiers. Watch me fold ya for actin' somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that nine shot, givin' props to the glock.

Pump, pump, I let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme the goodies, and nigga me dash. I reach for the gauge and
mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, don't test nuts. Your luck's fucked. feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin' off with the Graveyard Shift, comin' up for your ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin'
them chop chops. We rippin' them guts buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.

You better believe that we runnin' this thug style: Krayzie, Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, them wicked, now. We off the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now. East 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we on the darkside. Better
have pop, niggas be trippin' and flippin' as soon they get high. One-eighty-seven, you're caught in a murder. Niggas up to
no good. Po-po. no. They never could fuck with a thug-ho.

Pop, pop, givin' up to the double-glock, glock.

Mo!
Nothin' but them killas, up thuggas, rippin' bucks of lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin' pump eruptions, nickel trip and shut
and fuck 'em down, buckin' them coppers down, round after after round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain't no sound, just the demons screamin', "Rest in peace. I guess you got to suffer." Ready to dip, hollow tip,
got your wig split, and made your body rupture, hunt my victims on a mission, flippin', livin' on a side, creepin' on your
homicide. Let my and my gauge hang low. Now, walk on by.

[Boogy on the mic, right.]

Nikke:
Thuggin' through my thuggish-ass hood at night with my pipe. Thuggin' down the double-glock, tryin' to get my on,
watchin' my back while six-five try to roll on. But one to the head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the reefer all up inside me.

We jumpin' up out the hood. We bailin'. We thuggin'. We lookin' like crooks. The terror be fatal, ready to roll, now we
willing and able, rollin' with Ruthless, bitch, better my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight through the is the soldiers' ghetto. Nigga, don't take the
wrong turn; you will the hood, and we're splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Pound home, it's on.

Never get in the mix of a Clair player; you're liable to get your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, 'cause them thugs
them slugs, leavin' 'em off in the cut in a of blood, say what? Don't make me go in my trench. Nigga, ya got me bent,
all fucked up. Your luck's up. Now you gotta get sent to gravesite as John Doe for fuckin' with those...

It's them thugs runnin' amuck all night, but a slug up in you. The territory never divide, go nationwide the buck, buck. So
where you at? Where you at? I'm strapped and ready to snap and yank a nigga's back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair to tear a round) 'fore somebody stuck. You still won't
want some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press luck.