Bomb Threats Lyrics

[Chorus x2: Stash]
Real niggas do real things
Real paper get real bling, it's all in the game
Real drugs, real guns, real murder
We spit that hot shit, you never heard of

I'm that young nigga, doo-rag, hanging from my pocket
Watch it, cause I'm stealing earrings and watches
I'm one of a kind, hop out with the trey-nine
And dump some in your spine
You out of your mind, my niggas on some thugging shit
I'm too hot, for you to see me, you need oven mitts
This rap stuff, I love it, you can get
Your money and bet it, and watch you lose all of it
Ya'll niggas ate, my niggas never hate
Ya'll gay, so it's time I set the record straight
Look at my wrist, you see I got better cake
Go with my nigga Rob, if ya'll want a better wake
I'm on the nicest rock, when the blackout hit
I use my wrist to light the house
Uh, we got four chicks in the range, if I'm broke
You gon' see my five fingers on your chains

[Chorus x2]

Between green leafs and a Dutch, dog, and pass it around
You can talk tough, as you want and get clapped to the ground
Til the cops come around and find a round in your face
We chilling on the block laughing with the tech in my waist
Your flow's lame, your crew's softer than corner store news
You barking loud at the spit, but you roll with your crew
So welcome to the barrel of rugers, see what it do to ya
Clear face, pushed in a roll of holes like a souveneir
Slow ya roll, new jack nigga, you new to this
Stick game, guaranteed to uppercut ya girl uterus
Speaking lyrics now got this language all fluent
Niggas is getting mad cause they girl is grilling me
Put the pump in his face and make his hands touch the ceiling, B
We gangbanging ya dame, and it's on purpose
Front on Mayhem if you want and get stomped in the service
I'm spitting so hot, even the letters is burning, yes

[Chorus x2]

[Hell Razah:]
What you know about that sticky green cactus?
My team be, classic, get money on some rock star status shit
I leave your face like a Billy Jean Jacket
With spitting six, niggas used to snatch Lee patches off
New Jacks, take notes, take classes
Daddy get the graveyard raps on his taxes, son
More money, more hate, more ratchets
My gun'll make him holler like a Scream 3 actress
It's worldwide bankta shit, I burn you
Your crew, and whatever else lames you get
I be a one man military, play dead like Makaveli
They build my hood up in a cemetary
Ready for the best of the worst, I ain't Blueprint 2
But I've been through The Gift and the Curse
God forbid when I'm kicking a verse, cause your label gon'
Spend your royalties on getting a herse, f**k it though...

[Chorus x2]

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