G-joint Lyrics

Styles P Talking:
"Yo I rock the f**k out.
I dont know bout everyone else"

Verse 1 - Styles P

Whatever we dont make, we gona take mof**ker.
Get this straight and fix your face.
I aint gotta sell millions. Im in the buildins
with poppy comin thru with them bricks by eight.
Listen cocksucker and clown
Ill be leaving you cut.
Youre like a dutch hound, bustin ya down.
Niggaz driving in a circle wit your hoe in the back.
Be the only damn way Ill be f**kin around.
And I'm aiming for yo waist, hopin you duck
So i can bust you in the head when im buckin tha pound.
And I told you that Im holiday Styles
Lets celebrate.
Heard you gettin money, Ill rob you right now.
And you gon get popped in the head.
True Story.
Crips do they thing in blue, bloods pop off in red.
Me, I'm on the move only stopping for bread.
Double R and D-Block nigga, copper and lead.

Styles P Talking:
"Stay in the zone"

Verse 2 - Styles P

I dont know why the f**k you amped yo.
Got hoodrat bitches carryin birds on the public transpo.
Niggaz in the hood that go out like Rambo.
They hot since 138th had that ???
Young Buck, Dumb f**k
Two Gunz up, ride or die til the suns up.
Gangsta and a Gentleman dogg,
I got class, Ima send a bunch a roses to your men in tha morgue.
Ill be down south bendin a whore
(Ten in the morn)Pretendin im on.
(Dirty) Thirty on eighty-five like J-Bo and Sean Paul.
Beef wit New York rappers, I'm killin em all.
On my Slick Rick shit, y'all could lick the balls.
I been cool 'cause (these) niggaz is (ass.)asthma
(But)f**k that, might as well call me pool 'cause im (givin')gettin splash.ed
And that Lamborghini liftin tha stash
Even gettin the mass while some haze (to mix) be mixed wit the hash.

J-Hood Talking:
"Pass that blunt nigga"

Verse 3 - J-Hood

Im in the hood where the eggs get knocked off.
Gangmembers find they family members with both of they legs chopped off.
Niggaz aint scrappin, they bangin ya
The judge dont need a tree branch when they hangin ya
All y'all fags'll get ate like clams.
This is a blood sport bitch, You could call me J Van Dam.
All these so called "Guerrillas" be tellin'
How a rat goin' give you thoughts of a predicate felon. Motherf**ker
Homie, what you want, the blade or the slug
Im the one that send the order when they sprayed up the club.
Bitch nigga, bow your head in the presence of G's
Load the lead up and squeeze.
Im a great dane, niggaz is fleas.
f**kin rats cant wait to call cops,
Til I make em sick and put pellets in they mouth like cough drops.
J-Hood bitch, my name rang in the ghetto.
'cause im O.G. and I play the streetz like a chello.

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Songwriter(s): Marcellino Gerald, David Styles, John Kenneth Wetton, Geoff Downes

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