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 your guns with ya. If your a niggas gon' have fun with ya. So, nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, slangin' llello. It all the same.

Step and catchin' 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. that I thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How does it feel? And nigga 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, don't my hood.

A first degree murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch, puttin' a bitch and them 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' like some soldiers. Watch me fold ya for like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that nine shot, 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, don't test nuts. Your 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' them guts buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.

You believe 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. 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
your 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. Fuck no. They never could with a thug-ho.

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

Mo!
Nothin' but them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin' of lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin' 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, the demons 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 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 thuggish-ass hood at night my pipe. Thuggin' down the double-glock, tryin' to get my serve on,
watchin' my while six-five try to roll on. But one to the sucka's head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
the reefer smoke all up inside me.

We jumpin' up out from the hood. We bailin'. We thuggin'. We lookin' 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
settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight through the ten-five is the soldiers' ghetto. Nigga, don't take the
wrong turn; you will enter the hood, and splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg home, it's on.

Never get in the mix of a Clair you're liable to get your wig split 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. luck's up. Now you gotta get sent to your 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? 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.