a real gangster.

We movin' like rush ya, bone crush ya At the flick, stick to usher Born master, with the faster blade, track slasher Manufacture poems to microphones, bones fracture Limited edition composition spark friction non-fiction, the calm bomb keep your arm distant Plus all you busters is jealous, pull your gun out and blast I dare you niggaz to open fire, I’ll murder that ass And disappear before the cops come runnin, my glock’s spittin rounds niggaz fallin down clutchin they stomach <—–This from the almighty 2pac, R.I.P. Then we headed right back to the fort Sweatin all the bitches in the biker shorts We didn’t get no play, from the ladies With six niggaz in a car are you crazy? She was scared, and it was showin We all said “Fuck you bitch!” and kept goin