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, let's ride. Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you come
just bring your guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon' have fun with ya. So, nigga, get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, llello. It all remains the same.

Step and you're some 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 does it feel? And we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin', I'm buckin' 'em down. I wish ya would try to get redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don't my hood.

A first degree murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch, a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't fuck with
them niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin' the crime and murderin' every time. 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 shot, givin' props to the double glock.

Pump, pump, when I let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme the goodies, and nigga me dash. I for the gauge and
mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, test nuts. Your luck's fucked. Your feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin' off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin' up for your ho card, bitch. Scandalous dwell in the Clair, be servin'
them chop chops. We rippin' them guts with buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up out to the glock-glock.

You better believe that we runnin' this thug style: Krayzie, Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, wicked, now. We straight off the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now. East 99 me down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
have your pop, 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. Fuck no. They never could with a thug-ho.

Pop, pop, up shots to the double-glock, glock.

Mo!
Nothin' but them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin' bucks of lead, and (Clair thugs) pump eruptions, nickel trip and shut
and fuck 'em down, buckin' them coppers down, round after round 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, point tip,
got your wig split, and made your body rupture, my victims on a mission, flippin', livin' on a darker 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 hood at night with my pipe. Thuggin' down the double-glock, tryin' to get my serve on,
watchin' my back while six-five try to roll on. But one to the sucka's head, and two up in his body. Now my creep. I
keep the reefer all up inside me.

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

Never get in the mix of a Clair player; you're liable to get your wig and dumped in a ditch, bitch, 'cause them thugs sendin'
them slugs, 'em off in the cut in a puddle 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 your gravesite as Doe for fuckin' with those...

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