lirik lagu free murda - my black nina
peace to the god, what up, what up?
shacronz, free murda, what’s the word-word, son? (what up bobby?)
ain’t nothing, just living, son (looking good baby)
but you know how we do it, you knowhatimean (what you got on right there, baby?)
oh, on the feet, son? you know i got the ill wu-wear slaps on my feet, son
(n-body got those… what’s those son?) yeah, i got the roc-a-wear sweats
popping right here, thunn
knowhatimean (hold up, son, what the f-ck is that. yo what’s that bulging out
my, black, ninas, bust through project doors
fake suspect 85’s, on the floor
cops yell ‘raid’, i wasn’t afraid
and i won’t stop busting, til i get paid
black ninas… (“my, a…” -scratched up-)
everyday i live this thug sh-t, surrounded by plus whips
sitting on dubs, b-tch, i run with a rough click
dare one of ya’ll to say something about my team
i know you fake gangstas out your lean
shoot through your heart, choke you up, then rip out your spleen
if there’s a drought in new york, i’m down south with fiends
cash rule everything, so give it up, pa
stash, jewels, everything, we glittered up, pa
rocking your sh-t, popping your b-tch
send fire, raise an empire, copping more bricks
from a place where the chicks holding, ride or die
walk with a switch, hips swollen, pitch c-ke and crack
get money, til i die, hit honeys til i fry
grew up grungy, hungry til i ride
apply pressure, time’s short, need this project cake
lean on ’em, like project gates
c.c.f., yo the whole hood on some sh-t, n-gg-s is sheisty
can’t explain how them f-ggots in the p’s, might be
all stick each other, like teens holding tightly
try and light me, be the last n-gg- you might see
your wifey, grieving in the morgue, that like me
i splash you, have your gash, look like the swoosh from nike
f-cking freaking bodies in the process, get you clapped by my set
ya’ll n-gg-s d-gg-n’ free, you gon’ die wet
chicks in the p’s hoeing, them b-tches stay blowing
them b-tches stay boning, my guns stay toting
stick n-gg-s that be holding, when i clap ya’ll folding
leave foods in the streets, soaking
k-tone in my crib, loading
brown flag on my wrist rolling, head shots til ya’ll open
up like a store in the morning
have you laying dead in the train station like a rodent
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