Ice-T, Brotha Lynch Hung, First Degree - Secondz A Way lyrics

Shit done changed, the strip got bigger
To make my ends I got
The wheel and the trigger
I get my swerve on with the 80 P liquor
The liquor bring out the nigga in this nigga
Got me huntin' with my musket
Barred down with substance
Bringin' my ruckus to the rival
Fuckas in rival clusters
I'm still givin' birth to perfect joints
I keep it steady
Still mixin' up with skeet sours
I like them heavy
Heavy'll put a little bass in your voice
Yamps choice
No Rolls Royce but I keep it moist
I keep it saucy
Ya bossy bitch talkin' that costly shit
Bossy bitch think she too flossy to trip
I'm First muthafuckin' Degree
Not your average
I'll have your boulevard hoppin'
Poppin' off when a baller pack
A package of suckin'
Fuck you fuckin' up duck
Stuck like Chuck
Now, now getcha dome in the trunk
As we donut
I dump
I seen too many moons
Took the minds of too many bufoons
Fools with no clues that love
To watch my aura glisten
They still don't listen
I...I got pot that's hot to trot
Can't stop, won't stop
I got Lynch Hung in my
Backseat sniffin' for cops
I receipts of tweed purchase
Medical purpose, write off at text time
So ya'll go home
Light the smoke, it's relax time

Now I apologize for smoke on my mind
I been workin' hard and I got to unwind
About the J.O.A. stayin' in my brain
But I'm seconds away from goin' insane
Now I need to lift away

Now you niggas know I come
Sick like a lunatic
Man, they must be high cuz they really
Don't know who they fuckin' with
I used to have them all bombed out
Drink Alize wine
Then rhyme and smoke tweeds
Till we dropped out
I got the chop out, no doubt
Cuz if it ain't about rappin'
Gunplay's gon' happen
Cuz I'm tappin' at yo' window
Off that Indo, more sacs than Santana
Better check your antenna on your radio
Or your stereo or your video
Cuz I'm not that pretty
But in the bedroom I'm critical
You got your chance, now use
Hit you with the Loaded album
Coutesty of Siccmade Music
Evidently you got something against me
Don't you tempt me
Minty smells of the 20 sac of Indo
Killafornia's best
Player haters die a slow death, slow death

Now I apologize for smoke on my mind
I been workin' hard and I got to unwind
About the J.O.A. stayin' in my brain
But I'm seconds away from goin' insane
Now I need to lift away

I don't wear no Chuck Taylors
And don't sag my pants
But I still lift the switch
And make this 64 dance
More niggas with me now than
I had in the hood
And they down for whatever and
That's all to the good
Wish you would test my technique and heart
Nigga what?
Nigga, fuck that, bitch nigga
What? Baby, duck!
What you wanna do now
Ya bleedin' from the floor
Nigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no more
That's how I'm coming 9-6
Bitch, rich and mad
Hoes in bikinis
Rag Lambroginis
Overseer runnin' mad streets
Creepers with beepers and stash
Spots for glocks
And under car Escobar style
Buck wild
You been there, you know the terrain
Niggas go insane, tryin' to get the green
I'm just surviving on the
Streets with my peeps
And I'm livin' for the day I
Catch a punk on the creep
Yeah

Now I apologize for smoke on my mind
I been workin' hard and I got to unwind
About the J.O.A. stayin' in my brain
But I'm seconds away from goin' insane
Now I need to lift away