Masters of Illusion - We All Over lyrics
[Masters of Illusion - We All Over lyrics]
I threw the gat in the bac of his 'ac
I wore gloves so my
Fingers wouldn't make contact
It's either that or do time
For this herringbone snatch
F' that! partner take the
Rapper watch yo back
And he's back, who's that
Cadillac all black yo that's my folks
Young motion getting out with his yolks
Changing channels altos switching up to
Sopranos when they see us
Got'em curled up in a corner like fetus
Pop the trunk get yo stuff out
Switch the cars and move fast
Make 'em walk the plank the pirate's
Out here holding his shank
You don't understand the time that
You're doing for me
Just in case an' Clifton Santiago
Out here for free
Whoa don't tell ya potna we
Got to get it together
No more domestic import people stuck
Out there in customs
I don't trust a motha' bout as
Far as I can chuck 'em
His bodyguard looks familiar
I'm recognizing the scar
Officers got us at gunpoint
They searchin' the car
Two chinese men trying to
Launder 'bout 500 grand they homosexuals
I leave the male pimp in the stand
United states government officials look
For the man santiago's got his pictures up
In the post office
'cuz santiago is a pig and much of a goat
Last seen selling hash north, east
South west coast (yeah, yeah)
I went to Ralph's bought me chicken
My girl some Spam drove in the block with
A green Fleetwood Brougham
Gold Dayton rims with the diamonds
On the edge and trims
Trunk full of heroin checkin'
Out the mirror when two shotguns, grenades
Rockets stashed under the seat
LAPD took my license, but can't see me
Tinted windows, big powder
Here's for your nose
Straight from Miami, Columbian, Puerto Rico
Immigrant right hand man nicknamed Chico
Jamaican posse at the house
Drinkin' Carlo's Rossi
Carbine 41 shot banana clip machine gun
Duffel bags, work my cuban West Indian shirt
Callin' the feds up with private
Numbers tryin' to network
Official numbers in the
Stash glove compartment
Countin' bricks with incense in
An empty apartment up on the fourth floor
With lactose mixin' raw
Answer the door, stand behind it with a 44
Some sucka named Rell
Kid rung the wrong bell
Shut up Iesha! this girl tryin
To blow my spot
I gotta babysit I'm chillin' yo
The block is hot
Transfer my ammo, throw techs in a hefty bag
Hit the street, I talk of sales when I meet
I wore gloves so my
Fingers wouldn't make contact
It's either that or do time
For this herringbone snatch
F' that! partner take the
Rapper watch yo back
And he's back, who's that
Cadillac all black yo that's my folks
Young motion getting out with his yolks
Changing channels altos switching up to
Sopranos when they see us
Got'em curled up in a corner like fetus
Pop the trunk get yo stuff out
Switch the cars and move fast
Make 'em walk the plank the pirate's
Out here holding his shank
You don't understand the time that
You're doing for me
Just in case an' Clifton Santiago
Out here for free
Whoa don't tell ya potna we
Got to get it together
No more domestic import people stuck
Out there in customs
I don't trust a motha' bout as
Far as I can chuck 'em
His bodyguard looks familiar
I'm recognizing the scar
Officers got us at gunpoint
They searchin' the car
Two chinese men trying to
Launder 'bout 500 grand they homosexuals
I leave the male pimp in the stand
United states government officials look
For the man santiago's got his pictures up
In the post office
'cuz santiago is a pig and much of a goat
Last seen selling hash north, east
South west coast (yeah, yeah)
I went to Ralph's bought me chicken
My girl some Spam drove in the block with
A green Fleetwood Brougham
Gold Dayton rims with the diamonds
On the edge and trims
Trunk full of heroin checkin'
Out the mirror when two shotguns, grenades
Rockets stashed under the seat
LAPD took my license, but can't see me
Tinted windows, big powder
Here's for your nose
Straight from Miami, Columbian, Puerto Rico
Immigrant right hand man nicknamed Chico
Jamaican posse at the house
Drinkin' Carlo's Rossi
Carbine 41 shot banana clip machine gun
Duffel bags, work my cuban West Indian shirt
Callin' the feds up with private
Numbers tryin' to network
Official numbers in the
Stash glove compartment
Countin' bricks with incense in
An empty apartment up on the fourth floor
With lactose mixin' raw
Answer the door, stand behind it with a 44
Some sucka named Rell
Kid rung the wrong bell
Shut up Iesha! this girl tryin
To blow my spot
I gotta babysit I'm chillin' yo
The block is hot
Transfer my ammo, throw techs in a hefty bag
Hit the street, I talk of sales when I meet