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 your guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon' have fun with ya. So, nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang
thangs, bang some brains, slangin' 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 does it And nigga we
caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin', I'm buckin' 'em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, test my hood.

A first degree murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch, puttin' a bitch and 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. Niggas beware,
here come the Clair mobbin' some soldiers. Watch me fold ya for actin' like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, to bless some souls, with 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, out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, don't test nuts. Your luck's fucked. Your feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin' off the Graveyard Shift, then comin' up for your ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin'
them chop chops. We rippin' them 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 split now. East 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside.
have your pop, niggas be trippin' and 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, 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 screamin', "Rest in peace. I guess you got to suffer." Ready to dip, hollow point 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 nuts and my 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 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 up out from 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 again where the
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight 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 thugs and 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'
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 with the buck, buck. So
where you at? Where you at? I'm strapped and ready to 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 tear a round) 'fore somebody gets stuck. You won't
some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.