The Game, JT - Drop Ya Thangs lyrics

Drop ya thangs and just box
Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box
Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box
Nigga just drop ya thangs and just box

Yo, I hit the party in
My t-shirt and tennis shoes
They all watchin in they Hot
Boys and church suit's
Actin tough in the club ain't
Gon' get you home
Gettin drunk off of Patron just
Gon' get you domed
Still steppin on my shoes
Boy this nigga happy
This nigga thank he Lil' Jon
And his partner Scrappy
Goin dumb with his bitch so he don't like me
This ain't the South boy
We ain't crunk we go hyphy
You gotta know the rules, player let it go
You get to trippin my nigga
You gotta hit the do'
Rollin up this eight-nine gram I'm
Tryin to make a plan
Tuggin on yo' main bitch hand
Tryin to make a friend
This time for escapade only
Make the tec a-spray
I'm in the parkin lot
Standin by the Escalade
You got a problem we ain't
Fightin like a man
One-on-one with the Fig', get yo'
Face in the sand
Nigga

Nigga you a bitch wit'cho gun
Snitch wit'cho gun
Still get found in a ditch wit'cho gun
Bitch wit'cho gun, snitch wit'cho gun
Still get found in a ditch wit'cho gun

Yo, Fig' never play with them guns
No you hear me
Fig' ain't shot nuttin up but kill spirit's
Fig' ain't the one to be
Scared of the losses
One-on-one fightin for stripes
With right crosses
Uppercuts and heatbutts to get a head rush
Bitch niggaz rather kick back
And let they lead bust
I been a pitbull since Fila and Kenny Ken
Used to chuck 'em by the
Corner sto' whoever win
Them was my O.G.'s, and I was just a B.G
Whoever want to see me, Figgaro can
But now we got them old niggaz
That bust with they tommy
But caught without they tommy
Get rushed like salami
Cause everybody tired of them R.I.P.'s
We 'bout to bring this fightin back
Mayne to all our streets
Now, cowards wanna pack and
Killers wanna cruise and
Real niggaz stand alone mayne and
Do what we do
I wanna bust you but homey let me ask you
Why you wanna play with that gun
And make me blast you
Moms all cryin and shit, she gotta ask you
Better to save on caskets you dumb nigga

Oh boy! Old friends like to
Make up and get cavi
Hell nah, she in the club wit'cho baby daddy
She got the coat on he
Bought you for yo' birthday
(oh no)
You kickin back
I'm 'bout to clown him in the worst way
(bitch)
Team on preem' like he hangin
Out with 'Pac brother
And you a boss for not
Cuttin him with the boxcutter
And it was cool 'til this
Chick really got to trippin
Spittin drink in yo' face
Boy she popped up pimpin
(what?)
Zoked out like, fat boy you can't breathe
Bounce back and grab that trick
By her fuckin weave
Bring her to the flo'
Teach her 'bout the Get Low
She gon' really know
Mob her on the danceflo'

Yeah I gotta acknowledge them fo'
Carloads of HP niggaz
That came to Fillmoe for
Y'all one-on-ones mayne
And y'all got it mayne
Niggaz put the guns down and after
That nigga it was real big
They get stripes for that, nigga
Special shoutout nigga
To them three young Sunnydale niggaz
Nigga that was surrounded by
Ten Fillmoe niggaz mayne
And all y'all wanted was one-on-ones
And y'all got it nigga
Stripes for that!