Lyrics
Ah man, I’m sick and tired of fucking with these Columbians man
(shit man come with me), what’s happ’ing
You gon beat these Columbians deal
(yeah man, I have everything you want)
I’m trying to get, like a thousand pounds
(don't worry bout that, I got everything covered), oh fa sho
(yeah man), the last motherfucker told me he was a snake in the grass
(don't worry bout that I buckshot them), ha feel this right here
They got snakes in the grass, snitches on the block
If you violate my block, (we drop your blood clot)
But there’s one thang, you cowards should know
(you don’t wanna test, a gangsta)
1999, shine and grind at Wreckshop
Still had workers, moving nine and all rocks
'Fore the basketball stopped, the ref blow the whistle
'Fore I drop the top, I gotta cock my pistol
Launched the local missile, we city under siege
Remember my first brick, this part two G Had a partna calling me up, from Oklahoma
Said he lost his connect, he use to have in California
Getting pounds of dro, egg syrup clear coat
I use to serve the dope, way back in 9−4
Peep this, it gets deeper as the story goes on I told him call me back, I had Whitey on the phone
But that was just a lie, just made my play
Then the Red meet me, at the club in my two-way
Hard to stay away from paper, when you never had shit
So I met him at the club, in my trunk was a brick
I told that fool get in, let his partna drive his Benz
Meet me off 6−10, get a room at Shoney’s Inn
Said he want a whole thang, and a pound of fire
Exchanged a fake hug, boy I checked it for a while
I made the first thang, everythang was sweet
Then they boy started coming back, every week
Take twelve O-Z's, put em in a line
At 24 that’s 36, at the same time
A kilo, and if he go and move that
I’ll be on two bricks, by the time he get back
Hol' that thought, see this playa got caught
The FED’s found his work, and his cash in the vault
That was mental assault, his weak mind interrogated
His baby mama called me, said the nigga never made it He was easily persuaded, he ain’t wanna go to jail
Time to clean the house, with the cheese grab the scale
Three weeks passes, everything going smooth
Then he called me out the blue, hollin' bout what it do Talking bout he need some herb, and four of them birds
I’m in the house across the street, I had my phone transferred
Now I’m peeping out my window, and what do I see
The D.A., FBI and the HPD
See I had the phone in my hand, the chopper in the other
Trying to think back, have I ever sold to an undercover
Ah naw hell naw, put my back against the wall
Any means necessary, like Malcolm X dog
Whole time, the phone conversation get recorded
I said I can’t hear ya, playa the phone sounding started
Started thinking bout prison, judges and lawyers
That’s the price you gotta pay, when you wanna be a baller
Can’t drive my Impala, for the rest of the summer
Shit fuck that playboy, you got the wrong number