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(First Degree): Shit done changed, the strip got bigger To make my ends I got the wheel and the trigger I get my swerve on with the 80 P liquor The liquor bring out the nigga in this nigga Got me huntin' with my musket, barred down with substance Bringin' my ruckus to the rival fuckas in rival clusters I'm still givin' birth to perfect joints, I keep it steady Still mixin' up with skeet sours, I like them heavy Heavy'll put a little bass in your voice Yamps choice, no Rolls Royce but I keep it moist I keep it saucy, ya bossy bitch talkin' that costly shit Bossy bitch think she too flossy to trip I'm First muthafuckin' Degree, not your average, I'll have your boulevard hoppin' Poppin' off when a baller pack a package of suckin' Fuck you fuckin' up duck, stuck like Chuck, now, now getcha dome in the trunk As we donut, I dump, I seen too many moons, took the minds of too many bufoons Fools with no clues that love to watch my aura glisten, they still don't listen I...I got pot that's hot to trot, can't stop, won't stop I got Lynch Hung in my backseat sniffin' for cops I receipts of tweed purchase, medical purpose, write off at text time So ya'll go home, light the smoke, it's relax time
Chorus: Now I apologize for smoke on my mind I been workin' hard and I got to unwind About the J.O.A. stayin' in my brain But I'm seconds away from goin' insane Now I need to lift away
(Lynch): Now you niggas know I come sick like a lunatic Man, they must be high cuz they really don't know who they fuckin' with I used to have them all bombed out Drink Alize wine, then rhyme and smoke tweeds till we dropped out I got the chop out, no doubt, cuz if it ain't about rappin', gunplay's gon' happen Cuz I'm tappin' at yo' window, off that Indo, more sacs than Santana Better check your antenna on your radio or your stereo or your video Cuz I'm not that pretty, but in the bedroom I'm critical You got your chance, now use Hit you with the Loaded album, coutesty of Siccmade Music Evidently you got something against me Don't you tempt me, minty smells of the 20 sac of Indo, Killafornia's best Player haters die a slow death, slow death
CHORUS
(Ice-T): I don't wear no Chuck Taylors and don't sag my pants But I still lift the switch and make this 64 dance More niggas with me now than I had in the hood And they down for whatever and that's all to the good Wish you would test my technique and heart, nigga what? Nigga, fuck that, bitch nigga what? Baby, duck! What you wanna do now, ya bleedin' from the floor Nigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no more That's how I'm coming 9-6, bitch, rich and mad Hoes in bikinis, rag Lambroginis, overseer runnin' mad streets Creepers with beepers and stash spots for glocks And under car Escobar style, buck wild, you been there, you know the terrain Niggas go insane, tryin' to get the green I'm just surviving on the streets with my peeps And I'm livin' for the day I catch a punk on the creep, yeah
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The Secondz A Way lyrics by Brotha Lynch Hung is copyrighted and eLyrics.net is featuring all 