Текст песни Bullet Maker - Brotha Lynch Hung

Bullet Maker

Yeah
Sacramento, it ain't accidental
As I took over the city like the black Frank Nitti
California, kill a nigga
Put his body in the grave site
They might find blood in the house on they ?knife?
Everybody be thinking that they tight
Put them in the trunk and make 'em say "nite, nite"
'Bout to take a flight, flight
Light 'em up like a light bright
Intercept internet, Wi-Fi, why lie?
You know I'm harder than concrete
Hard that they want me downtown on

And if you ain't from the town, that's the county jail
Hit him in the chest, make his brownies swell
(And) And his family yell
Crying at the funeral
Do you know that my Dickies stay blue-tiful?
(Cuh)
Creased up, sharp
Cut 'em up in the two, you know?
I'm a psychopath and I like to ?gas? 'em
Put 'em in plastic, after, I drop 'em in the acid!

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Grr
I'm a G when it comes to
Putting niggas up six feet deep
Yeah, I don't be doing it cheap
Life-taker-maker, reaper, he can leak
Fleetin', keep 'em overheatin' see?
Then everybody leakin' even
Leave 'em to the motherfucking grave site
They might keep walking to they funeral on

They might, just might
Cuz I can begin just like '94 and the six-four
I'm a Sacramento skitzo, and I'm always packing a pistol
Just know, I don't pull that motherfucker slow
Yeah, I'm fast with it
'Bout to rip that ass with it
I ain't asking
I'm running up in this crib, giving out ass whoopings
Still gripping, but I ain't active with it
And I'm back to get it
Can't wait 'till the summertime
Then I'm back to get it
Me and Phonk Beta smokin' on a skunk hater
Dickies and ya Chuck Taylor's
Bitches getting fucked later, ha!

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I'm full of that liquor
And I'm about to hit you with that shit
That'll make you kill your bitch
Put her in a ditch
No way, you can't blame me
I'm insane, G, from the B-L-O-double C
I'mma leave his chest bubbly
Hit him with the TEC-9
No pointed tinted
But you niggas better respect mine
Bullets'll end it
Eat the meat when I'm finished
See these teeth?!
They can chew through fifty pounds of beef
And if you sound

out my way
And if you taste too sweet, then I'm thinking it's great
It's my crown to keep, you can bet I'mma keep it
I put that on my dead momma, I'mma creep like the reaper
He can try to creep to the speaker
But I'm speaking in tongue
Grab the machete
And put that shit straight through your lungs
I'm the Brotha Lynch Hung, nigga
Know this the last name
I get that heater
Put it right in that ass, mane!

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