積分

AUSFÜHRENDE KÜNSTLER:INNEN
Killer Mike
Killer Mike
Stimme und Gesang
Bun B
Bun B
Stimme und Gesang
T.I.
T.I.
Stimme und Gesang
Trouble
Trouble
Stimme und Gesang
KOMPOSITION UND LIEDTEXT
Bernard James Freeman
Bernard James Freeman
Komponist:in
Clifford Harris
Clifford Harris
Komponist:in
Jaime Meline
Jaime Meline
Komponist:in
Michael Render
Michael Render
Komponist:in
Trouble
Trouble
Komponist:in
PRODUKTION UND TECHNIK
Bradley Post
Bradley Post
Ingenieur:in
EL-P
EL-P
Produzent:in
joey raia
joey raia
Mischtechniker:in

歌詞

[Verse 1]
Hardcore G shit, homie, I don't play around
Ain't shit sweet 'bout the peach, this Atlanta, clown
Home of the dealers and the strippers and the clubs though
Catch you comin' out that Magic City with a snub, ho
Lurkin' in the club on tourist motherfuckers
Welcome to Atlanta, up your jewelry, motherfucker
These monkey **** lookin' for some Luda and Jermaine
And all that **** found was a Ruger and some pain
Pow, motherfucker, pow, come up off the chain
Pow, motherfucker, pow, one off in his brain
We some money-hungry wolves and we down to eat the rich
Your bodyguard ain't shit, we strip him like a stripper bitch
These real-ass killers move in silence with violence
The minute it set off, we the motherfuckin' wildest
How you from Atlanta that they never speak upon?
Where everybody got a sack of dope and a gun
[Verse 2]
Now you know just how it go
We ain't playin' round with that bullshit
****, we ain't lettin' shit go
When you come here you better come correct
It's real G shit, you gotta show respect
[Verse 3]
Once upon a time in the projects
An OG saw a young Bun B as a prospect
Thought that I would understand the streets from a very young age
So he opened up the G Code to the front page
He sat me on the porch, said, "This where little dogs sit"
Pointed at the yard, said, "That's where big dogs shit"
He said, "Don't leave till your ass get growed
And don't come back till your ass get throwed"
[Verse 4]
Whatever you want is whatever you can have
Bring the pain and leave 'em wet like they soakin' in some salve
When you step out on the ave, make sure they wanna see you
'Cause bein' trill is an onomatopoeia
Be about it like a G, a hater wanna catch you slippin'
Tried to be a Jordan but settled for a Pippen
Player, I ain't even trippin' but I don't really care
'Cause my pistol's in your face so put your hands in the air
[Verse 5]
Now you know just how it go
We ain't playin' round with that bullshit
****, we ain't lettin' shit go
When you come here you better come correct
It's real G shit, you gotta show respect
[Verse 6]
In a six I'm ridin' with a pistol grip, banana clip
From Simpson Road to Adamsville I'm reppin' this Atlanta shit
**** tryna handle up, let's see, can they handle this?
A hunnid round at 'em, that ain't no Louisiana shit
Drinkin' on the Hennessy, blowin' on that cannabis
Amerikkka's nightmare, trap **** fantasy
Record full of felonies, searchin' for a better me
But choppers go off in my hood like Iraq, Cuba, Tel Aviv
Shoot a ****, let him bleed, fuck him, shorty
Sucka **** I'll never be, don't give a fuck about it
Quick to round up on that Audi, make him get the fuck up out it
**** better be about it, he deserve it, he allow it
What's a coward to a kamikaze? He ain't robbed a man
Here predator and prey, the law of nature where I stay
I catch you slippin' with that K, ain't no illusion, no confusion
Better come up off that cake and all that jewelry or you're snoozin'
[Verse 7]
Now you know just how it go
We ain't playin' round with that bullshit
****, we ain't lettin' shit go
When you come here you better come correct
This real G shit, you gotta show respect
Wha-da-dang, wha- da- da- da -da- dang
Listen to my clip before that five go bang
Bang bang, guap time, rep game
We the readers of the books and the leaders of the crooks
Predators, we eyeballin' all of y'all lames
Let me fall off, I'm takin' all of y'all chains
All of y'all watches and all of y'all cars
Well, who he talkin' to? All of y'all stars
All of y'all rappers and producers and such
No homo promo, homie, you might get your ass touched
Like Def Jam circa '83, you get rushed
If you rollin' with some winners then you rollin' with us
I know some dumb country **** but them **** ain't weak
Know the dressed up lookin' hard but them **** ain't cheap
I don't make dance music, this is R.A.P.
Opposite of that sucker shit the play on TV
[Verse 8]
Now you know just how it go
We ain't playin' round with that bullshit
****, we ain't lettin' shit go
When you come here you better come correct
It's real G shit, you gotta show respect
Written by: Bernard James Freeman, Clifford Harris, Jaime Meline, Mariel Orr, Michael Render
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