Lox - Bust Your Gun (feat. Styles & Sheek) Lyrics
* send corrections to the typistShit is crazy.. can't believe itHa, haha, oooh, shitWe don't give a ***** about you frostin' ya hand (*****),cause knockin' off these bricks then often yo' manThat's the kinda boss that I am (why not),and I'ma play shotgun, smoke the pores make a vanHollarin' at you so deep and so sick wit' the gunsWhen I walk by the wake I want the cough in the stand (stand up)So hold up for one minute (what)You won't catch me in the tub, in the whip,or the club without a gun in it,and don't come through the strip,lookin' hard in the car, with ya mother*****in' daughter and ya son in itLately I been missin' my fred, the roof pop (too hot),but feel me cause he hittin' the stairs, the truth popNiggaz think this album cuts (haha!)I'm like ***** it, I'm the nigga comin through the door wit two revolvers up (two 'em),and I'm takin' all drama,and I spent twenty thou' mother*****er so I just got more problems[Chorus]You got'sta bust yo' gun,cause if you don't then niggaz know you won't they gon' touch yo' onesGot'sta bend yo' knife,cause if you don't then niggaz know you won't they gon' change yo' lifeAiyyo, who gotta my name huh?Who think it's a *****in' game (c'mon)Like yo' money can't be found under the cane (y'know)Like yo' body can't be found under the trainsLike this punk we'll shatter apart your brain (bla!)I'ma thug wit' no scars, and no braids,but I could aim, and shoot through the heart or your shadesI'm too row, plus too quick on the gat (uh-huh)Hate water, but I leave you wit' a wills play-backI don't give a ***** if all y'all go to the cops,and I don't give a ***** if none of y'all gimmie my propsI got shit in my name and my credit is worseWhat's to stop me from shootin' you first?***** YOU! (haha)I'm like tattoos, you forget that I'm there (uh-huh)To the gun fire perm your hairMiss you, and go strait through your moms rockin' chair,through her back and it ain't stopin' there![Chorus] - 2XBounce my niggaz.. c'monSheek and S.P., rock, rock on (c'mon)Bust shots 'til your glock can't pop no more (hahaha)Let it down 'til your top can't drop no more (uh-huh)Hit you up 'til your spirit where the Eagles fly (c'mon)Talk to me, if you really come back then you'll die (c'mon)Make me believe, no shirt but still got some shit up my sleeveNo asthma, makin' it hard to breatheLet's go, aiyyo Styles take this mother*****in' mic from me, c'monAight.. aiyyo, P'll tell it like story, just like a narratorYa don't mean it, we snappin' it like the AligatorsOpen ya eyes so you can see what the drama meanI hit ya man in the cheek wit' a barber blade,and I'm in the first floot at the (?) ParadeForty on the weights wit' a fifty on the garcaradeAlways got the route, never had the heart to begYou ain't seein' shit 'til a slug rip a part'a head[Chorus] - 4X
