Hell Rell, J.R. Writer - Ruger Rell & Writer lyrics

Yea, yea, yea (Uh, huh) yea, yea, yea
Oh we done doubled the
Trouble this time nigga (Yes sir)
Dipset fully loaded! (Let's blast off)

Ruger Rell, Writer of Writers
Will gun a nigga down
Plus the fighter of fighters
Ya'll just get weaker, we tighter and tighter
There's work to be put in, you fired
We hired

Now what it do, It's Hell Rell
I'm the hustler's champ
I got a semi automatic that'll
Knock off your camp so don't push me
I'm a hotheaded son of a gun
This gangsta that I am
I did not wanna become
What these streets do
Man they shaped me and mold me
To a cold blooded killer that'll
Blaze at ya homies this bitch get cute
I smack the whore and leave her there
I'm stuntastic
I crash the Porsche and leave it there
And get another Boxter
I just caught dread for 5 pounds of shit
Bout to get another Rasta
You hoppin in the Honda
I'm getting on the chopper
Talkin on my phone
Conducting business like a Mobster
You put your order in, your yay gon come soon
Sorry ass niggas, they day gon come soon
(And what day is that)
Oh that's the day that your momma cry
These two Rugers pop and sing you a lullaby
Leave you laid out, get ghost in them vans
And on the real
Me and Writer just want your advance
And your budget got spent in
The club last week
And you probly didn't know who
I was the last week
But this track you gon remember me
Avoid the penitentiary yea this Hell Rell
I'm the gangsta of the century nigga!

Ruger Rell, Writer of Writers
Will gun a nigga down
Plus the fighter of fighters (Uh, huh, yea)
Ya'll just get weaker, we tighter and tighter
(JR writer in the building, let's do it)
There's work to be put in, you fired
We hired

I'm out to solve it with skills
I give the slaughters the chills
I make 'em nauseous or I'll
Skip from a Porsche Deville
Before I caught me a deal
I was caught up in krills
Like fuck the billboards
I'm a hit the border for bills
So I'm layin in the shade
Playin with them K's
Cat front, I'll lay some paper on his waves
Keep playin like you brave, and nah
I don't know you
But, I'll have some dirt on you
When I lay you in the grave
I'm past hot, ask not
I'll leave your cat popped runnin shit
A hundred clips go up in your black socks
Let a cat plot, hat pop, blast it
Put money in the casket
Call that the stash box
Gotta laugh Ock, you could never fuck with me
One eighty even though the dash
Say a buck sixty
Pardon me I'm grown, ARAH on some chrome
Flyin past, sittin in the
Charger like a phone, holmes
I'm just a supplier, whippin that fire
Black body, black rims
Chrome lip on the tire
You're not as sick as this flow
You guys are sick of this pro
JR writer, AKA the flyest nigga you know, Ho

Ruger Rell, Writer of Writers
Will gun a nigga down
Plus the fighter of fighters
Ya'll just get weaker, we tighter and tighter
There's work to be put in, you fired
We hired