Luyện nghe bài hát Shotz To The Double Glock

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.

Tony
If you're down to glide and slide on the Clair, let's ride. Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you come
just bring your guns ya. If your a busta niggas gon' have fun with ya. So, nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang
thangs, bang some brains, slangin' llello. It all remains the same.

Step and you're catchin' some buckshots. Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock. Mo Thug, up? Nigga, get drug,
put 'em in the mud, pop and I can't stop, now. Niggas that I thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How it feel? And nigga we
caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin', I'm buckin' 'em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don't my hood.

A first degree murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a ditch, puttin' a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't with
them niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of committin' the crime and murderin' every time. Niggas beware, 'cause
here the Clair mobbin' like some soldiers. Watch me fold ya for actin' like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the
bloody road, time to bless souls, with that nine shot, givin' props to the double glock.

Pump, pump, when I let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme the goodies, and nigga me dash. I reach for the and
mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, don't nuts. Your luck's fucked. Your feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,
thuggin' off with the Graveyard Shift, comin' up for your ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin'
them chop chops. We rippin' them with buckshots, pop, pop. Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.

You better believe that we runnin' thug style: Krayzie, Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, them wicked, now. We straight off the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now. East 99 follow me down to me street, buck, we on the darkside. Better
have your pop, niggas be trippin' and as soon they get high. One-eighty-seven, you're caught in a murder. Niggas up to
no good. Po-po. Fuck no. They never fuck with a thug-ho.

Pop, pop, givin' up to the double-glock, glock.

Mo!
Nothin' but them killas, straight up thuggas, bucks of lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin' pump eruptions, nickel trip and shut
and fuck 'em down, buckin' them coppers down, round after round round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain't no sound, just the screamin', "Rest in peace. I guess you got to suffer." Ready to dip, hollow point tip,
got your wig split, and made your body rupture, my victims on a mission, flippin', livin' on a darker side, creepin' on your
homicide. Let my nuts and my gauge hang low. Now, on by.

[Boogy on the mic, right.]

Nikke:
Thuggin' through my thuggish-ass hood at with my pipe. Thuggin' down the double-glock, tryin' to get my serve on,
watchin' my back while try to roll on. But one to the sucka's head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the reefer all up inside me.

We jumpin' up out from the hood. We bailin'. We thuggin'. We lookin' like crooks. The be fatal, ready to roll, now we
and able, rollin' with Ruthless, bitch, better check my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous
niggas settle. Bloody nigga, be on my level. Eighty-eight through the ten-five is the soldiers' ghetto. Nigga, don't take the
wrong turn; you will enter the hood, and we're splitters so cover your dome, out the cut, where the and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg home, it's on.

Never get in the mix of a Clair player; you're liable to get your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, 'cause them thugs
them slugs, leavin' 'em off in the cut in a puddle of blood, say what? Don't me go in my trench. Nigga, ya got me bent,
all fucked up. Your luck's up. Now you get sent to your gravesite as John Doe for fuckin' with those...

It's them thugs runnin' amuck all night, but a up in you. The territory never divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck. So
where you at? you at? I'm strapped and ready to snap and yank a nigga's neck back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair to tear a round) 'fore gets stuck. You still won't
want some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.