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 ride. Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you come
just bring your guns 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' some buckshots. Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock. Mo Thug, up? Nigga, get drug,
put 'em in the mud, pop and I can't stop, now. Niggas 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 buckin' 'em down. I wish ya would try to get redrum,
bitch. Nigga, test my hood.

A first degree wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch, puttin' a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't fuck with
niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin' the crime and murderin' every time. Niggas beware, 'cause
here come the Clair mobbin' like soldiers. Watch me fold ya for actin' like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that nine shot, givin' 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 test nuts. Your luck's fucked. feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin' off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin' up for your ho card, bitch. 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 believe that we runnin' this 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, caught in a murder. Niggas up to
no good. Po-po. Fuck no. They never could fuck 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) gaugin' pump eruptions, nickel 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 and my gauge hang low. Now, walk on by.

[Boogy on the mic, right.]

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

We jumpin' up out from the hood. We bailin'. We thuggin'. We lookin' like crooks. The terror be fatal, 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 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.
Browns, the Dawg 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 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 up. Your luck's up. Now you gotta get sent to your gravesite as John Doe for fuckin' with those...

It's them thugs runnin' 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 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.