[Chorus] Drop ya thangs and just box Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box
[Verse One: JT] Yo, I hit the party in my t-shirt and tennis shoes They all watchin in they Hot Boys and church suits Actin tough in the club ain't gon' get you home Gettin drunk off of Patron just gon' get you domed Still steppin on my shoes, boy this nigga happy This nigga thank he Lil' Jon and his partner Scrappy Goin dumb with his bitch so he don't like me This ain't the South boy, we ain't crunk we go hyphy You gotta know the rules, player let it go You get to trippin my nigga you gotta hit the do' Rollin up this eight-nine gram I'm tryin to make a plan Tuggin on yo' main bitch hand, tryin to make a friend This time for escapade only make the tec a-spray I'm in the parkin lot, standin by the Escalade You got a problem we ain't fightin like a man One-on-one with the Fig', get yo' face in the sand, nigga
[Chorus]
[Hook: JT] Nigga you a bitch wit'cho gun, snitch wit'cho gun Still get found in a ditch wit'cho gun Bitch wit'cho gun, snitch wit'cho gun Still get found in a ditch wit'cho gun
[Verse Two: JT] Yo, Fig' never play with them guns, no you hear me Fig' ain't shot nuttin up but kill spirits Fig' ain't the one to be, scared of the losses One-on-one fightin for stripes with right crosses Uppercuts and heatbutts to get a head rush Bitch niggaz rather kick back, and let they lead bust I been a pitbull since Fila {?} and Kenny Ken Used to chuck 'em by the corner sto' whoever win Them was my O.G.'s, and I was just a B.G. Whoever want to see me, Figgaro can {?} But now we got them old niggaz that bust with they tommy But caught without they tommy get rushed like salami Cause everybody tired of them R.I.P.'s We 'bout to bring this fightin back mayne to all our streets Now, cowards wanna pack and, killers wanna cruise and Real niggaz stand alone mayne and do what we do I wanna bust you but homey let me ask you Why you wanna play with that gun, and make me blast you Moms all cryin and shit, she gotta ask you {?} better to save on caskets you dumb nigga
[Chorus] + [Hook]
[Verse Three: JT] Oh boy! Old friends like to make up and get cavi Hell nah, she in the club wit'cho baby daddy She got the coat on he bought you for yo' birthday (oh no!) You kickin back, I'm 'bout to clown him in the worst way (bitch) Team on preem' like he hangin out with 'Pac brother And you a boss for not cuttin him with the boxcutter And it was cool 'til this chick really got to trippin Spittin drink in yo' face, boy she popped up pimpin (what?) Zoked out like, fat boy you can't breathe Bounce back and grab that trick by her fuckin weave Bring her to the flo', teach her 'bout the Get Low She gon' really know, mob her on the danceflo'
[Chorus] + [Hook]
[JT] Yeah I gotta acknowledge them fo' carloads of HP niggaz that came to Fillmoe for y'all one-on-ones mayne, and y'all got it mayne Niggaz put the guns down and after that nigga it was real big They get stripes for that, nigga, special shoutout nigga to them three young Sunnydale niggaz Nigga that was surrounded by ten Fillmoe niggaz mayne And all y'all wanted was one-on-ones and y'all got it nigga Stripes for that!
[Chorus] + [Hook]Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
