[Yukmouth]
Je je jeah, nigga! ugh
It`s a Mob Figa event
My nigga J. Klyde
Ya bitches
Ho up , or blow up ya stank bitch
Jeah
Yukmouth in the mutha fuckin` house ya hoes, SHEES!
Jeah
Pop ya colla and ya chain nigga
What! What! Jeah!
[Yukmouth]
We getting` it, the magnificent
20 inchin` it, conceded
Only in the model bitch I`m interested
Weeded
Splif after splif we smoke infinite
Blingin`
Chained to my dick and shit
Pop Crys ridiculous
Flow like terrific
Rippin` it, spittin` it
Fuck all your written shit
Here`s your death certificate
Yuk fucks `em up on some different shit
Make bitches shave from they tits to they clitoris
Make the innocent college bitch eat the licorice
Crash the Jag [AHHHH!]
Next day flip a bigga six
King of Oakland but not on no Jigga shit
This Regime life bitch niggaz witness this
Oakland to Pittsburg smokin` herb
In mink coats and furs
Niggaz slang hydro and birds
In Cali fuckin` video hoes and center folds
But still retire rappers like Arsenio Shows nigga
Chorus: [Rydah J. Klyde]
Fly gangsta how you get so fly?
Them other birds go hard when they try
They look sloppy what is it a carbon copy?
You the nigga boy I ain`t gon` lie
Coochie in Gucci, Channelle
Louie and oouie
Got diamonds in his mouth
I stared when he spoke to me
He probably buying cake
Trynna get me to buy his type
He fly away I hope he come back to me
Fly Gangsta!
[Rydah J. Klyde]
Yo I`mma let the hatters do them
My neck and wrist I draped it
Untouchable, M-O-B Figa affiliated
Or how I feel to make it out the roughest of times
Grandma raised me and my cousin, three sisters I grind
Some years later
She at the school I had no shine
And half the time the clothes wasn`t even mine
But in do time
Junior high, `89
Me and Brittle started to grind
See who got free waps from E-Y-T Swann had bomb
He scored from Fat Rat
Early 90`s grimy boy we at that
My pockets got the mumps
For real work off in my backpack
Cross cords and silk shirts got me missin` every class
Now she flirtin`
Winkin` the lashes
I`m too high to catch a pass
I`m getting` money bitch [what]
I ain`t got time
Shit unless she trynna grind for a fly gangsta in his prime
Keep ya eye on me
And quarter ounces ridin` from my project buildin`
I`m livin` grimy lookin` like a million
Watch me
[Chorus]
[Rydah J. Klyde]
Now I`m slidin` through the night
In the same shoes I could have died in
A hundred times count my blessin`s
Pick my nine see the times change
In sub stations in the housin`
I`m in my [?] bumpin` 11/5 browsin`
With thousands in rubber bands
It`s dirty money from the gutter man
The block is crowded gettin` cluttered man
Who is this mutha fucka Gem?
You know him?
He housin` high speed
Hittin` gates
Scuffin` the shit out my Nike`s
Or maybe in my zone at home writin`
I got a plan to blow
Stick up money and grams is movin` slow
I spread my wings
Got my weight up
Now the hatters they know
Cuz when a nigga havin` paper it show
Birds of the same feather fly together
We make a nigga wanna have his cheddar
Who got ya gritting in the coldest weather?
You goin` hard and you gettin` better
The F-L-Y to the seventh letter
In any weather
I`m Fly Gangsta
Bitch!
