Luyện nghe bài hát Shotz To The Double Glock

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

Tony
If down to glide and slide on the Clair, then 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' fun with ya. So, nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, some brains, slangin' 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 'em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, test my hood.

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

Pump, pump, when I let my 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 nuts. Your luck's fucked. Your feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,
off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin' up for your ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin'
them chop chops. We rippin' guts with buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.

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

Pop, pop, up shots 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 darker side, creepin' on
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. down the double-glock, tryin' to get my serve on,
watchin' my back six-five try to roll on. But one to the sucka's head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the smoke 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 check my label. Murdered them, never come where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight through the ten-five is the soldiers' ghetto. Nigga, don't the
turn; you will enter the hood, and we're splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg Pound home, 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'
slugs, leavin' '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 John Doe for fuckin' those...

It's them thugs runnin' amuck all night, but a up in you. The territory never divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck. So
where you at? you at? I'm strapped 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 to tear a round) 'fore somebody gets stuck. You still won't
some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.