Bone Thugs-N-Harmony
Текст песни Shotz To The Double Glock

All:
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, killa.

Tony Tone:
If you're down to glide and slide on the Clair, then let's ride.
Tony Tone roll with Bone on the darkside, but when you come
just bring your guns with ya. If your a busta niggas gon' have
fun with ya. So, nigga, don't get me wrong, my niggas swang
them thangs, bang some brains, slangin' llello. It all remains the same.

Wish:
Step and you're catchin' some buckshots. Murder one on the Clair-nine-glock-glock.
Mo Thug, what's up? Nigga, get drug,
put 'em in the mud, pop and I can't stop, now. Niggas that I
thug with kill. Pop to the chest. How does it feel? And nigga
we
peel caps. Pap. Fin to get your wig cracked back. Killin', I'm
buckin' 'em down. I wish ya would try to get some redrum,
bitch. Nigga, don't test my hood.

Tombstone:
A first degree murderin' wig splitter, gravedigger diggin' a
ditch, puttin' a bitch and them snitches in the pit, so don't
fuck with
them niggas off the nine-nine--the foundation of niggas committin'
the crime and murderin' every time. Niggas beware, 'cause
here come the Clair mobbin' like some soldiers. Watch me fold
ya for actin' like somebody never told ya. So off we go, to the

bloody road, time to bless some souls, with that nine shot, givin'
props to the double glock.

Flesh:
Pump, pump, when I let my shells down. Hit a lick, now gimme
the goodies, and nigga me dash. I reach for the gauge and
mash, yell out "one-eighty-seven" and blast. Nigga, don't test
nuts. Your luck's fucked. Your feelin' wrath of the Boneyard,

thuggin' off with the Graveyard Shift, then comin' up for your
ho card, bitch. Scandalous niggas dwell in the Clair, be servin'

them chop chops. We rippin' them guts with buckshots, pop, pop.
Me give up shots out to the glock-glock.

Krayzie:
You better believe that we runnin' this thug style: Krayzie,
Layzie, Bizzy, Flesh, Wish, them wicked, now. We straight off
the
glock-glock. Run up, get your wig split now. East 99 follow me
down to me street, buck, we thug on the darkside. Better
have your pop, niggas be trippin' and flippin' as soon they get
high. One-eighty-seven, you're caught in a murder. Niggas up
to
no good. Po-po. Fuck no. They never could fuck with a thug-ho.

Pop, pop, givin' up shots to the double-glock, glock.

Mo! Hart:
Nothin' but them killas, straight up thuggas, rippin' bucks of
lead, and (Clair thugs) gaugin' pump eruptions, nickel trip and
shut
and fuck 'em down, buckin' them coppers down, round after round
after round. Bloody bodies, badges spreaded on the
ground. Ain't no sound, just the demons screamin', "Rest in peace.
I guess you got to suffer." Ready to dip, hollow point tip,
got your wig split, and made your body rupture, hunt my victims
on a mission, flippin', livin' on a darker side, creepin' on
your
homicide. Let my nuts and my gauge hang low. Now, walk on by.

All:
[Boogy Nikke on the mic, right.]

Boogy Nikke:
Thuggin' through my thuggish-ass hood at night with my pipe.
Thuggin' down the double-glock, tryin' to get my serve on,
watchin' my back while six-five try to roll on. But one to the
sucka's head, and two up in his body. Now peep my creep. I
keep the reefer smoke all up inside me.

Layzie:
We jumpin' up out from the hood. We bailin'. We thuggin'. We
lookin' like crooks. The terror be fatal, ready to roll, now
we
willing and able, rollin' with Ruthless, bitch, better check
my label. Murdered them, never come again where the scandalous

niggas settle. Bloody nigga, trues be on my level. Eighty-eight
through the ten-five is the soldiers' ghetto. Nigga, don't take
the
wrong turn; you will enter the hood, and we're splitters so cover
your dome, out the cut, where the thugs and hustlas roam.
Cleveland Browns, the Dawg Pound home, it's on.

Sin:
Never get in the mix of a Clair player; you're liable to get
your wig split and dumped in a ditch, bitch, 'cause them thugs
sendin'
them slugs, leavin' 'em off in the cut in a puddle of blood,
say what? Don't make me go in my trench. Nigga, ya got me bent,

all fucked up. Your luck's up. Now you gotta get sent to your
gravesite as John Doe for fuckin' with those...

Gates:
It's them thugs runnin' amuck all night, but a slug up in you.
The territory never divide, go nationwide with the buck, buck.
So
where you at? Where you at? I'm strapped and ready to snap and
yank a nigga's neck back. Split them (Kool-Aid) hats.
Into the graveyard, but prepare to get (drugged up on the Clair
to tear a round) 'fore somebody gets stuck. You still won't
want some, bitch, but what the muthafuck? I wanna one to whammy
with a TEC-9. Now, bitch, press your luck.