Hittman, Dr. Dre, Knoc-Turn’al - Blaaow! lyrics
Dr. Dre [Andre Romell Young] Compton, California, U.S. 🇺🇸
[Hittman, Dr. Dre, Knoc-Turn’al - Blaaow! lyrics]
What the fuck this shit banging
Hey my nigga Mel-Man told me
If you throw a rock at
A pack of bitch-ass niggas
The only one who’s gon’ scream out
Is the one who got hit
So you know what, fuck all you niggas
You, you and you you know
Well it’s the D-R, D-R-E Hitt Mizzy
Keep it hot as hell up in LA city
Fuck a gang, only (set?) I fear
Rolling fifties, cause they can get me
For this heat I’m holding with me
My golden four fever`s a hole
In your head leave a
Put that ass to sleep ain't
Talking bout the bed either
The home of the red and blue
You need to come clean like Lever -
2000, chronic album, still smoking
For real locin' much ain't gotta be said to
Get your shit broken
Heart or jaw, I'm hard I'm raw
Nothing to prove to y'all
Just dippin` down Compton Boulevard
If you didn't help me go
Platinum or suck my dick, you're useless
8 ball to the gall for y'all who
Thought that Gatorade was baller juices
Saw the Aftermath recruit's
Rivals labels wanna call truces
Try to stall us
Send their harlots to seduce us
We composed of brawlers, ballers, emcees
Producers no losers allowed
Don't be confusing the style
Chronic 2000, here and now blaaow!
We Rush
Nothing left in the aftermath but dust
And niggas like us stay plush
Strapped with automatics that bust
On the West Coast where snitches and haters
Get crushed
Man Dre (What’s up my nigga?)
There’s too much shit in the game
They put an S in front of Hitt
Trying to shit on my name
Now whoever mouth it came out of, no love
In your direction a barrage of
Slugs at your mug so get bulletproof
Won’t serve you as far as protection goes
It’s like bare backin` HIV-positive hoes
Hm, you know you’re gonna die
And I assume you wanna do so
The way you came at H-I doube T man
See man this form of trouble could
Place you in RIP land
Amongst the freelance, harp players
The martyrs and the everyday prayer-sayers
Try to run shoot at your
Jordans, make`em lose air, air
Your game is over player
I’m came to make sure your jersey's retired
I’mma throw your going-away party
With a church and a choir
A hearse and a driver
I’m the gun that Dre hired nigga blaaow!
(Nigga blaaow)
Hey my nigga Mel-Man told me
If you throw a rock at
A pack of bitch-ass niggas
The only one who’s gon’ scream out
Is the one who got hit
So you know what, fuck all you niggas
You, you and you you know
Well it’s the D-R, D-R-E Hitt Mizzy
Keep it hot as hell up in LA city
Fuck a gang, only (set?) I fear
Rolling fifties, cause they can get me
For this heat I’m holding with me
My golden four fever`s a hole
In your head leave a
Put that ass to sleep ain't
Talking bout the bed either
The home of the red and blue
You need to come clean like Lever -
2000, chronic album, still smoking
For real locin' much ain't gotta be said to
Get your shit broken
Heart or jaw, I'm hard I'm raw
Nothing to prove to y'all
Just dippin` down Compton Boulevard
If you didn't help me go
Platinum or suck my dick, you're useless
8 ball to the gall for y'all who
Thought that Gatorade was baller juices
Saw the Aftermath recruit's
Rivals labels wanna call truces
Try to stall us
Send their harlots to seduce us
We composed of brawlers, ballers, emcees
Producers no losers allowed
Don't be confusing the style
Chronic 2000, here and now blaaow!
We Rush
Nothing left in the aftermath but dust
And niggas like us stay plush
Strapped with automatics that bust
On the West Coast where snitches and haters
Get crushed
Man Dre (What’s up my nigga?)
There’s too much shit in the game
They put an S in front of Hitt
Trying to shit on my name
Now whoever mouth it came out of, no love
In your direction a barrage of
Slugs at your mug so get bulletproof
Won’t serve you as far as protection goes
It’s like bare backin` HIV-positive hoes
Hm, you know you’re gonna die
And I assume you wanna do so
The way you came at H-I doube T man
See man this form of trouble could
Place you in RIP land
Amongst the freelance, harp players
The martyrs and the everyday prayer-sayers
Try to run shoot at your
Jordans, make`em lose air, air
Your game is over player
I’m came to make sure your jersey's retired
I’mma throw your going-away party
With a church and a choir
A hearse and a driver
I’m the gun that Dre hired nigga blaaow!
(Nigga blaaow)