City Of Dank

[Baby Beesh]
It's your boy, Baby beesherelli mane,
La Velvet clika,
Representing that yay area dogg,
Down South mane, Houston, Texas mane, with my smoking cousin

[SPM]
Mister S-P baby

[Baby Beesh]
S-P-M baby boy, South Park Mexican,
With my nephew, young Happy P,
Man on the track, one love,

[SPM]
One time for that Ikie

[Baby Beesh]
Ikeman my boy, representing that 7-1-3 clique mane,
Houston, Texas mane,
We fixing to show you how we get down mane, check it out

[Chorus (Baby Beesh & Ikeman):]
[Baby Beesh]
Where I come from, the city of dank,
Where niggas shoot hop, snort, and smoke crank,
Where anything's possible and nothing fa sho,
High off Khadafi mixed with blow
[Ikeman]
Well I come from, the city of drank,
Where niggas drop tar, ride and drip paint,
Grip the grain, switch the lane,
Swinging on them thangs,
Got the trunk with the bang cuz the South on there staying

[First Verse (Baby Beesh):]
Some of you G's can't help it,
We love our money green like the Boston Celtics,
They felt it cuz every saucy Chicano's down with Latino Velvet,
Don't get it twisted, we got some more in case you missed it,
Straight from the Buh-ay, where them niggas keep it playeristic,
Now every hour, a coward is devoured,
Some perking, off the powder, some slanging go mental flowers,
Smoking cavys in the Navi, or the four door fleetwood caddy,
Geeking, while we tweeking or smelling the puporalli,
Valley jokers what we ran with,
And them haters just can't stand it,
They frantic cuz us hispanics,
Gigantic like the Titanic nigga,
Seven seas, I'm trying to cop seven keys,
All folks with the 2-0-9's got whole ones for eleven G's,
So I ain't passing Baby Beesh all about that scrilla scratching,
Hooked up with the Ikeman now we robbing in Guerilla fashion,
Eighteen with a bullet, we bumping totally insane,
I'd like to praise the Mac God for showing me the game

[Chorus]

[Second Verse (Ike Man):]
Off the top, all us realas double R we going hard,
Down South we hit the bar, smoking 'dro up in the guards,
Foreign car we send low, bout my fetty and the dough,
For those that don't know it's three and a quarter for the bow,
Lime green lil' apartment, kind that make you wanna rhyme,
But oh, dollar shine, it takes time to make 'em blind,
I'm on the grind to go and get,
I got my gangsta ready to spit,
I-K-E about my digits,
Feds want me cuz I did it,
I done flipped it into green, with my cousing lil' beam,
We be hogging up the scene with our mugs on mean,
7-1-3, we coldest, from the jump they can't hold us,
Got the bricks, got the boulders, let the World know it's over,
I-K-E and S-P-M, and that Mexican Baby Beesh,
Down to make major cash from the bay to seven one tre,
That's how we do it like some G's,
Making money from these ki's,
Every block we touch bleeds,
About to put this game on freeze

[Chorus]

[Third Verse (SPM):]
Cognac sipper, born to crack flipper,
Juggling hoes like my boy Jack Tripper,
Glass slippers, on my smoke ray Lac,
I was broke way back, walking down a train track,
Mary Jane sacks gave my ass a brain lapse,
Insane raps riding with strange cats,
Plain gats, nothing special but do the job,
Rolling 'round trying to find someone new to rob,
A lot of what you smoke, a lot of what you snort,
Playing crack bars seemed to be my favorite sport,
My only dance floor was the hot corner store,
Beat 'em down, hol' 'em up, that boy don't want 'em no more,
Chest cracker, neck snapper, don't make the Mex act a,
Muthafucking fool on the best actor,
Lead blaster, I hope it hits you where it has to,
It's the S-P-M sipping syrup mixed with Shasta

[Chorus]