a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 #

ripgut style - dna tru lyricist lyrics

[intro: dna tru lyricist]
we ready?
do i got the mic settings ready?
they seem ready
yo, haha
i love this sh*t
i really love this sh*t
i got two of my buds on it
i got two on it
yo, where am i from?
[verse 1: dna tru lyricist]
welcome to the 903
i bone these beautiful women even if they belong to my homies
keep your eyes on me, it’s highly advisable
i’m ripping these weak cats, twisting their kneecaps, get stabbed with an icicle
jack your bicycle, better hope your eyes arе closed, it’s a pretty ugly sight, you know?
creeping up besidе you, hoe, with a mic and a roeg knife to your throat, quick slit, now i’m finsta go
i love this ripgut sh*t, quick, sl*t b*tch, ‘fore i stick stick stick
make your guts drip drip drip, she throwing a fit fit fit
tie her to the bed and give her this sick thick d*ck
it’s me and my boy, king jables, sitting at the king’s table
i call my boy, tha reap’r, ’cause he’s able to eat you weak fables
you falsified fake hoes, make no mistake, i take no bs
you’ll end up in the chest, this is your announcement
[?], i’ll take your ounce grip, but not to f*ck with it ’cause i don’t f*ck with it, i just do it to f*cks with you
half of this is written, half of this is freestyled, it comes natural
i’ll split your head wide open
i’m wild when i busting on these motherf*cking flows, leaving your brains wide scoping
all over the floor soaking wet, slipping and landing in blood and sh*t
blunt sh*t blasting at your thugs, bloods, and crips
i don’t give a f*ck, i’m loving it
it’s all ripgut cannibalistic artistic sh*t you can’t get with
when i spit this sh*t, i sink you deep quick, b*tch

[verse 2: brotha lynch hung]
this is the valley, don’t get it twisted up
you can get you necklace twisted off
you can get your lid split with the indica
southside ’til i get turned inside out
you better pack up and fly down south
before i get sick and i split your nuts
i’m mixed with a pit bull and a rottweiler, a shot caller
y’all n*ggas need to stop all the talking like y’all balling
’cause we not, we might run up in your weed spot
with the t**ter totter, take all you weigh
break all your face, almost everything
i leave concussions
[verse 3: king jables]
yo, yo, i said it’s king jables
yeah, we up at that king’s table
got a mean stable, so try cutting that green cable
if you think that that’s the one to be stopping the detonation
i run up in your crib, leave your pops in a better place
in a hospital bed * the patient, shots of the medication
and send your mom a fedex box with a severed face in
before the sorcerer torture ’em, locked in a meditation
fed ’em human flesh in a box and i said it’s bacon
the doctor beheading patients, no medical license
if i put a price on your head, your head’ll be priceless
nice guys finish last, she said i’m the nicest
cost to be the boss? they never said what the price is
i drink advocaat, b*tch, don’t test me, i ain’t having it
my gang savages, for that lettuce * we break cabbages
i’m not the dude you wanna be locked in a train cabin with
cut a hole in your skull, all of your brain * grabbing it
removing it, no gloves, and i ain’t sterilised
i’m scaring guys, one wrong move and you’re paralysed
i bury wise guys’ bodies all in the alley
for calling me mr bailey or mr barley, i told ’em it’s mr valley

[verse 4: brotha lynch hung]
this is the valley, don’t get it twisted up
you can get you necklace twisted off
you can get your lid split with the indica
southside ’til i get turned inside out
you better pack up and fly down south
before i get sick and i split your nuts
i’m mixed with a pit bull and a rottweiler, a shot caller
y’all n*ggas need to stop all the talking like y’all balling
’cause we not, we might run up in your weed spot
with the t**ter totter, take all you weigh
break all your face, almost everything
i leave concussions
when we roll up, no discussion, just busting
just in time i got you for your line, now
now i’m headed back out, i fly to sacramento
some call it sack of indo
some call it macramento
some call it brotha lynch hung
some call it cowtown, but the ak make ’em bow down
lynched by inches to death if you f*ck around
somebody gon’ buck ’em down
somebody gon’ touch ’em up
somebody gon’ rough their puff
somebody in the city, they gon’ get petty and get out, yuh
(the city of sac*)

- dna tru lyricist lyrics

Random Song Lyrics :

Popular