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 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, don't get me wrong, my niggas
them thangs, bang brains, slangin' llello. It all remains the same.

Step and you're catchin' some buckshots. 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 with kill. Pop to the chest. How does it feel? And nigga we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get 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 murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch, puttin' a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't fuck with
them niggas off 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 nine 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 reach for the 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 niggas 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 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 me down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
have 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. no. They 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 round after round. bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain't no sound, just the demons screamin', "Rest in peace. I guess you got to suffer." to dip, hollow point tip,
got your wig split, and made your rupture, hunt my victims on a mission, flippin', livin' on a darker side, creepin' on your
homicide. Let my nuts and my gauge low. Now, walk on by.

[Boogy on the mic, right.]

Nikke:
Thuggin' my thuggish-ass 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 head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
the reefer 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 my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, 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 we're 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 player; you're liable to get your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, 'cause them thugs
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 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 divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck. So
where you at? Where you at? I'm strapped and ready to snap and yank a neck back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair to tear a round) 'fore gets stuck. You still won't
want some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I one to whammy with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.