I know what y'all feel like doin
Go 'head and crash your whip in the fuckin wall
It's cool, niggas we gets busy
Fo' sho', spit rogue, get mo' bout to kick in the door
Dick sore, split whores 'til they shit on the floor
Clique more sick from when you use to see us before
Shit, kill a nigga quick, niggaz know my rapport
Keep workers on the strip that be ready for war
Brick I flip a little quicker if they shit in the store
Rip, maybe 'til they drop, and they shit in they drawers
Shit crazy when I pop, and I'm gripping the four
Thick bitches in the spot, watch 'em strip for the sport
Spit vicious for the block, yeah we swinging a torch
Stick niggas for they shit, thank 'em for they support
Quick nigga, better quit snitchin' down at the court
Check track a little slick and try to go on my Forbes
Cause we stacking like we rich, and we holding the fort
This time, we had to bring it, guess what we brought
The hottest shit to bang from L.A. to the streets of New York
All my people, get drunk, get high, What-up?
Get money, get rich, get fly, What-up?
Get stupid, get busy, get live, What-up?
Jump all in your whip, turn the key and drive, What-up?
Make a mill' yeah we gon' make about five, What-up?
We speak the truth and we ain't talkin no jive, What-up?
I'm speakin to the streets and everybody's widdit, What-up?
Once again you know we only come to get it, What-up?
Aooww! Ha, I stay wicked now I'm back on the strip
Like I went on a vacation and I'm back from my trip
'Nough radio rotation like I'm sailin a ship
Or when the team circle the block, busy trailing my clique
Truck packed full of niggasg with the strap and the whip
Get the gat out of the stash, put it back on my hip
Gat butt you in the face, split and fatten your lip
Blood hit the floor louder than the clap when it drip
I credit your name with bullets, read the back of the script
My victim's initials engraved on the back of the clip
Chicks love the way we roll, how the movement is thick
So official like my name's on the back of your bitch
Pay triple for the name on the back of the stitch
Name like the whole city now I'm changing the pitch
Kick back kinda crazy when I'm holding the fifth
Think you nicer than the God, shit is only a myth
Grab a hold of the masses, I was born with a gift
Niggas be running they trap, throw 'em over the cliff
Thinking and drinking the Guinness, busy holding the spliff
Flipping and shitting on niggas 'til we old and we stiff
I don't even drive whips, throw the shit on the lift
12 hours, one worker do the whole of the shift
I do the thing to make you open your mouth
And give you shit to bang the Midwest and the rest of the South
Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings
"What Up" as written by Keith M. Boxley Carlton Douglas Ridenhour
Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC
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