"40 & C-Bo" as written by John Deacon, Brian Harold May, Freddie Mercury and Roger Taylor....
It's all about that, scrilla scratch, flossin' a bad batch and pushin'
Somethin' luxury when it ship the sector snack, my semen
Drank the diamonds, geechie dub shinin'
Ninety-seven sport drop Benz, gettin' mine
You can hate and catch the tip of the blade of my sawed A-K
It's West coast mafia for the Midwest to the Bay
But I'm from the Valley of Cali we specialize in cap peelers
Straight thug niggaz, quick to draw like Matt Dillon
Outlaws, strap in drawers, ready for war, push up
On the side of your Ford Explorer and start dumpin' through the doors
We realers, with so much scrilla can you hang with G's?
Start uhh, who busy Jesus said

Fuck cowboy keys, now I ain't never been nobody's sucker
Nor have I ever been any coastal fake
"He got too much too lose, he ain't gonna bust in the ring!"
Out of state deputy license plates fix a ticket window tinted
I could shoot to kill, dressed up like a old man in a Bonneville
Disguised, ready to chastise and dissapoint my prey
Surprise, the element, apply pressure
Get back at the motherfucker, snatch back at the motherfucker
Bust caps at the motherfucker... motherfucker!
One-Time up in the Valle-Jo
Follow me and Bo to Sacramento
Spend it on some ol' high performance, Catastrophic
Get some stunts, turn some tight ones, blew a head gasket

It's fo'-oh and C-Bo, quick to blast
Break niggaz like the Task, without the mask
Water, bring the noise like we on stage
Boom, break 'em down like a twelve-gauge

Back at'cha I rose, Chuck Taylors and double-oh's
Young thugs, ready to protect with fo'-fo's
On a mission mashin', nonstop 'til we cashed in
All out assassins known for down and dirty and blastin'
On sight smashin', anything no question asked
Runnin' up with no mask and dumpin' caps in that ass
This one life we live, is to be lived without sin
But I'll be damned if I die without a damn thing to give

Don't make us have to be the one to grab the gun
And get to dumpin' on your crew! That's what we do, check it
Drop it like it's hot, assume the position on the flo' butt naked
Give me erything you got
Or you gonna end up comin' up missin' and I won't regret it
Still Water run deep (how deep?)
Uhh, all I find all I keep, uhh
Pay the price to have a sucker put on ice
Got just as many Hot Ones as my nigga Spice


But if they, locked you up and throw away the key, what would you do, E?
I'd be up in that motherfucker watchin' my latest video brought to you by
Trass G and Trey Dogg from the California Music Channel Broadcasting
Rap Show the Bay Area's own Number One network, cable station, C.M.C.
(Beyotch!) Love letters to my wife, ba-bee I miss you
This mornin' I learned how to make a pair of dice out of some toilet tissue
Fan mail from my fans, get up out of jail
Waitin' for my court appeal

Nigga pass the strap and let me blast
I'm quick to get off in that ass
It's Forty Water and the Loco Bitch so kiss dick and kick cask'
From Sacramento down to Vallejo, on a mission about that mail
We specialize in collectin' pays
If you come short, we dumpin' facials I holds down the fort
With two Magnums culture go toe to toe
With any one of you bitch ass niggaz
That think you can fuck with me and fo'-oh
It's old school trick, new school fools they catch clips
Forever money over bitch, we'll never caught snick considered licked

Hell yeah, ay
See that's what I'm sayin' that shit is realer than a new fifty dollar bill.

Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings

"40 & C-Bo" as written by Harvey Jay Mason Damon E. Thomas

Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Lyrics powered by LyricFind

40 & C-Bo song meanings
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