"Don't Stop" as written by and Eriksen/hermansen/storm/jackson....
[C-Bo]
First off we the mutha fuckin' Thug Lords
Now for all you niggas bangin', that mutha fuckin' West Coast like nigga?
You know what I'm sayin? And fa sho no lie
29th Street Crip Gang nigga, C-Bo holdin' nothin' back
Yukmouth, Spice 1 and we do it live, for the world it's still fuck off
You know what and we in that you know what I'm sayin?
And this how we handle business, nigga
From the early 80's to these 2 G's, boy
Huh, We blaze em up with AK's, double my clip and we dip
Set trip and get hit, flip Crip or get zipped
Run with the Crips, catch me clumsy in the 6
6 rag invertable slide divertible, murder ya
Dead and gone never heard of ya
Now we stuffin' lead in the chrome, bout to hurt ya
Pack ya down in the earth, we put work in like Mad Dirt
Ordainers twistin' like the revolver or the earth
Fuck church, it's a must I burst and curse
Yeah I'm a West Coast Bad Boy but a thousand times worst
Dime piece, gun in her purse, one in her skirt
Cross me, bet ya life that my bitch burst
Got me lockin' down the world for the North Pole
Too cold to hold lyrics froze my wrist and my hoes
Number one Thug Lord, fuck wit us!
I won't lie the whole world gonna rush wit us, tell em

[Chorus:][Yukmouth and Spice 1]
Thug Lord niggas boss up and don't stop
Thugged out niggas boss up and don't stop
Thug Lord niggas boss up and don't stop
Thugged out niggas boss up and don't stop
Blow! Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang
Spice, Yuk and Bo we do the damn thang
Blow! Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang
Thug Lord niggas we do the damn thang

[Spice 1]
Nigga you listenin' to the B-O-S-S-I-L-I-N-I
Yukmouth and C-Bo you know they label us born to die
But I pistol slap you and two niggas like 3 Stooges
Walk over to the bar and sip on Gin and juice
It's just the gangster in me, the thug in me
Mug in me and get yo fro pushed back like homie
You lil' clown ass nigga walkin' in bozo shoes
While my niggas out here doin hits, makin' the news
What you think you gon' dodge these bullets like Matrix?
Like a condom, I even lay teck on a bitch
Now that's some cold shit, a low lick, a cold hit
Leave a nigga at a funeral cryin' with no bitch
Some Thug Lord shit nigga shoot up ya coffin
Niggas cross game get murdered by bosses
Cost's yo mutha fuckin' life when you play with the rules
They got a n-uh-nigga still singin' the blues

[Chorus]

[Yukmouth]
Bitch, next up to bat, Yukmouth destroy the earth with rap
Imagine pain worse than that, my niggas coppin' birds of crack
Servin' track, cock back and burst the gat
I want my turf back, I hurt that, work that, twerk that
Rolex speed spot like Joe Pesci
AK ready, we deadly, bitch!
I'm like Hannibal, rector eat MC's for breakfast
I'm the hardest artist to sign to a label in Texas
Yes it's that nigga with the platinum grill full of princesses
Invisible set, straight up herbal molescents
In less than 60 seconds I kill em leavin' em breathless
Don't fuck with bread, run outta' state bit records
With chin checkers in Benz stretches who win cheddar
When fakers scramble liquid hands on niggas with vendettas
I'm like 10 fraredders bustin' off at the same time
Payed rhymes, I kick shit off when it's game time

[Spice 1]
Blow! blow, blididat, blididat!
Blow, blow, blididat, blididat, blididat!
Blow, blow, blididat, blididat
Blididat, blididat blalalalat!
Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang
Thug Lord niggas we do the damn thang
Blow! Blada baba bo, blada baba bang bang
Spice, Yuk and Bo we do the damn thang

[Brother Lynch]
I'm hittin' niggas so hard with these you would need Jesus
Believe these is yo last days I can see you cleavage
That's why I'm fuckin' you with the 9 millimeter
And I feed a nigga with the heater, he was a long bleeder
And he taste good with fajitas, heat em up now eat
Member me? Nigga that be eatin' raw meat
With tiger claw feet so it's easy to creep
You leave me no reason but to leave niggas bleedin'
Receive grievance with extra Season of the Sicc
I pick em off like Brock Marion
He kept starin so I took care of him, shot him up with heroin
Like malt liquor, to the liver hitter, to the river wit ya
Dip ya down deep, down deep
Where pirahna heat they eat they meat
Heat up they seats, they seats with metal from the Southside ghetto
I swear I'll make why'all mutha fuckas yellow
Tired of diggin' ditches like the GoodFellows
Not good with mellow, I keep the meat
Keep it hangin' in the closet like pig feet
Delete, come with the

[Spice 1]
Blow! Blalat! Blow, blow, blow blididat
Blow! Blalalat! (ahah)
Blow! Blididat, blididat!
Blow, blow! Blalalalat! Blow (ahaha)
Blow!


Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings

"Don't Stop" as written by Mischke Butler

Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing

Lyrics powered by LyricFind

Don't Stop song meanings
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