The Game, JT, Bluechip - Blacksox lyrics

[The Game, JT, Bluechip - Blacksox lyrics]

Another G-Man Stan production
The originator of this 808 shit
In the Bay area
You got your boy JT the Bigga Figga
Thuggin it out with my young nigga the Game
And my homey Bluechip
Blacksox, oh boy! Hooked up
With Get Low Records
Puttin this shit together, my nigga

It ain't a nigga in the game
That could hold me down
I've been independent forever so
They know me now
And I'm the cat they gotta find
When they wanna get signed
You wanna get your paper right
You gotta study my grind
I'm like Rush in "Krush Groove"
A nigga that bust moves
Right out, and tuck tools
Bullets that bust dudes
Ain't no beef in the briefcase
Just beef for Pete's sake
We round up cats
To beat 'em in a street race
We count paper up
To make a nigga change his plans
They under weight so they ain't
Gettin off they gram
You mad at my boys, cause we choppin 'em in
They make twenty then the Fig want 10
That's the rules that the Get Low, play by
The block boys stay high
California stock with K-5
It's the rules that the Get Low play by
Them block boys stay high, the California K-5

Huh, it's the Blacksox doin a joint together
The whole world stoppin to listen
Ol' breakers poplockin to this
And white boys headboppin in 6's
Niggaz boxin in prison
Shit bang hard like a conjugal visit
And the game ain't big enough
For niggaz so move over
Matter fact, move out, we takin over
Them boys is comin
And they aimin straight for the neck
The B-L-A, C-K, S-O-X

Yo, yo, well it's the B dot L dot
You know the rest
Wanted by the feds, hated by the ATF
Shorty sucked me out of my Timbs
My bad, that's your wife? Fuck your life
Anyway I heard you workin for vice
You ain't real man you hide behind ice
Youse a impostor, snatch him off the roster
Always live by the rule, get dough
Or die tryin
Hardcoded into shinin
Pass the bucket now I'm back on bet it
If, beef was erased man my tool gon' finish
Never been the loudmouth type
Sugar Shane of this rap shit
Southpaw when the mac spit
Listen rookie, don't make me mad boy
Or you gon' be like Big, a dead (Bad Boy)

Huh, niggaz think they got the game sewed
Yeah right
I'm air tight, fresh in them Air Nikes
If the Navi outside, I might be there
Black hoodie, black 9, black wifey airs
Rock guns like Caddy trunks, keep a spare
You see the lump under the
Iceberg fleece and gear
And when the beef cook
I'ma put the piece to your head
And if you see a white truck
That mean yo' sheets is dead
Then I'm goin goin, back back
To the block to dump the bucket
And jump in the drop
Niggaz know I'm good with the glock
They call me Chick Hearns
Cause if the game on knot
I'm callin the shots
I'll wear a shiny suit for a
Minute like I'm The LOX
Then get gangster with a swap meet
Bag and a Jordan box
And when I die, bury me with the glock
And a bucket of shells
In case niggaz want drama in hell

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