Lyrics
Stop at the store, make my - pump the gas
And when we get home, you fitting to cut my grass
In my Cutlass, 1982
My baby mama tell me, "Los, I ain't afraid of you"
- your threats, 15 percent of all my scrilla
Man, that's the mother of my children, I can't kill her
So I break bread and proceed to get -
From a blonde - but her - hair red
Strawberry patch got my back scratched up
These other - rapping, but they can't catch up
I'm blessed by the lord, Trinity keyboard
Peace to filero representing freeport
I'ma rock the Casper, cold as Alaska
I'm sipping on a twoza and a 12-ounce Shasta
Dolce & Gabbana on my Nana Republic
I keep my - rugged 'cause the real - love it
What's the rock cooking, nah, I'm cooking rock
Got my - working at the butt naked spot
I'ma bunny hop my new drop out the shop
Peace to Big Chief from the what, Rap-A-Lot
I'm a hogging dog while I creep in the fog
Pull out my - and tell my - I need a job
If you want service, I'm at 1-800-Murders
Flipping chickens while you -s flipping cheeseburgers
I'm sipping on Durbas, wetter than some surfers
Clown them so bad I should join the - circus
Snatching -s purses, hope my luck reverses
I'ma take the two-piece with the biscuit from churches
No way the churches could ever clean my paper
Tell my mom I love her, tell my dad I don't hate you
Story Carlos Coy, ese bato es bien loco
17 ki's and started off with one ocho
We kick in doors, we robbing stores
Creep 64's, welcome to gangsta life
Packing beams, destroying dreams
Sag dickie jeans, we make them see the light
In studios, with mafios, - jazzy
It just don't ever stop so industry prepare for me
That double C, my nuts is all I got
I walk in the club -s stare at me
-, you got something you wanna share with me
Can't we just all live marily?
Just wishing they could bury me