[VERSE 1: Young Prod]

If any crew wanna mad-dog, if you look it's on

I got this .44 chrome spittin at your dome

Comin from the shoulders, droppin muthafuckas like boulders

Rollin with my chip Motorola

Blazer all fucked but I ain't walkin

Head feelin light cause my stomach startin to talkin

As I roll by hoes yellin out: "Star!"

But I yell back: "Bitch, look at the car!"

You seen me in a video, don't think that I hustle

Stressin so bad, make me wanna jack Russell

I dropped outta high school askin where the money at

'Man, it's in the rap game' - now it ain't no get back

'Homie fuck that, where y'all from, loc, you bangin?

I thought the Cartel were some 87 gangsters'

Look homie, I'm a player and I ain't got time

Two steps back, buck you dead in your eye, eye, eye...

[CHORUS: Young Prod]

If you trip off your mouth and my strap's in my lap

It ain't no get-back, prepare for your casket

Nutshell Nazi, the S.C.C.

Persist to get pissed on, get yo buster ass on

[VERSE 2: Prode'je]

Should I bomb? Yo, let's commence to kill a

Pussy-ass niggas talkin bout they pullin triggers

We got the back streets sowed up

Live on luck will leave your ass fucked, nigga, hold up

You pickanannies be talkin plenty bullshit

But you ain't shit when it's time to get with

Real niggas from the S.C.

I peel your cap off

Nigga, now turn that muthafuckin rap off

5'8" with a big stick

Muthafuckas try to run but I'm comin at that ass quick

I'm so bad I kick my own ass

You disrespect me and I be gettin wreck just like a plane crash

Dash, I have your ass burnin like some hash

Ash, you see a mash, then you hear the blast

Ask the Prod what that be like

I tell you gangster, now you know it's all to the g right


[VERSE 3: Havikk the Rhime Son]

It's ninety-muthafuckin-six, gees finna ride and slide

Cartel Gang down to hoo-bang in a five

Niggas gettin twisted but I don't give a fuck about a buster

Cartel till I die, muthafucka

A nigga dressed thuggish, postin with the heater

Decapitate yo dome with this nine millimeter

'draulics on amp, the ass is on call

Hit the second switch, bitch, post my d's on the wall

Chuck T's posted on the curb

'yac in my palm and I'm chokin off that herb

I swerve back to the 9 block, pager goin wicked

Check my phone book for a bitch who wanna kick it

Diarrhea-at-the-mouth muthafuckas better ease up

S.C.G.'s regulatin fools g's up

Rhime Son, nigga, on deck puttin it down for the set, loc

Mobbin murder deep with my kinfolk

[CHORUS: repeated till end]

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