Reachin' For Fame

(álbum: Lynch By Inch: Suicide Note - 2003)

[Lynch Talking]
Yeh, yeh..
Back at that ass once again
Had to do it, bitch niggaz in the town
Ya know what I'm saying
I'ma tell 'em what I know
Know what I know

[Brotha Lynch Hung]
Word on the streets is don't quit ya day job
I own spots while you won't even get to own a spot
I'm unconcious sipping on that sugary Saint I-des
Your raps need that Midas touch while mines rhymes
It's suicide fucking wit me, believe it
I'll tuck the fifty cal now cause some niggaz tried to get me
Split me in half like a joint bitch, I had it cracking
Slugs went flying through ya window, nigga I'm the captain
You just rapping to get by, might have to get to wrapped in a 6-5
Might have to get that trucking and get locked
Nigga you taste good like sour cream and chives over potatoes
I'm a tornado, you just a puddle
A poodle talking shit 'bout to get one put in ya noodle
Biotch ya got the nuts to be attacking back at me
My chap I'm strapped have the fifty pound metal in the back seat
And it's all legal, got me dumping at ya Regal wid the do dirty
Gotta get mine done no matter who hurt me
Every bitch I got I got the key to the spot
Better hide yo bitch before I get the key to your spot
Stand right over ya bed wid yo glock
Put one right in ya head ya whole cake
You ain't even gon' play my shit rock up just like cocaine
You a no name I'm preaching you still reaching for fame

[Tall Cann]
Same old shit but a different day
Back at these niggaz like boomerangs
Nigga wanna come around and do my thang
Banging these niggaz for the dead issues
Call the paramedics to get you
Not fucking wid me in this lifetime
Not thinking in my right mind
Like Mike Tyson when it's my time
Got these niggaz hollering woof
Baby you ain't hard as hundred proof
My fellow you just a nigga that won't fit in a puddle
Piece a shit, nut riding get your ass outta hiding
Dip on 21st street riding there won't be a survivor
Yo ass ain't no McGuyver you done say the wrong thangs
The method that I got to give 'em busting out some teeth to say the less
You can save the rest for later
I mean I'm way to major like E-major nigga
You claiming my game but you ain't nothing but a hater
So when I pull out my tool scram
Ya riddled drain eggs and ham you in the frying pan
The way I reach out and snap a nigga like a rubber band
Oh no there goes another man tryna fuck wid the Siccmade fam
Uh, Uh again?, God damn

[CO]
These niggaz talk alot of shit but don't really know about C-O
That sneaky motherfucka hit ya ass like ya P-O
When ya least expect it with the cold Smith and Wesson
Have my bitch, set you up at the telly get you undressing
Then it's lights camera action my pistol's blasting
Ya night went from cashing to missing fractions
But shit do happen, so ya shoulda been ready
Instead of doing all that yapping shoulda copped you something heavy
We deadly, like rattlesnake bites y'all the taddling type
Deal wit my pain and probably rattle ya life
So instead of worrying about ours you need to see
What's the matter wit ya life?
What's the matter wit ya life boy, ya can't get it right?
What's the matter wit ya life boy, ya can't get a life?
Then spark it up this hitter does so ya can't get no ice
So now ya wanna hold a grudge wid, niggaz like us
Beause we move shit like drugs where y'all staying and cus
And talk about the same shit all day
And us we on the next page and after that the next page
So try again the next day if you can't fade us today
Practice makes perfect lil' guy stay in ya place

[Brotha Lynch]
I'm a Southside rider, funk provider
Leave you in the trunk tied up, punk ya lied to us
Just to tryna glock wid us get a piece of the pie wid us
We too O-G, I don't fuck wid them mics cuz
I'm diggy down it will take plots to get me now
And I got the fifty thou, wanna bet ya not get me pow
I'm the threat starter fire starter put a hole in ya Starter
And you couldn't find me cause it's time for departure
Tryna get ya CD's out, I know it start ya
Blame it on me I got heat, I leave ya scortched up
I'm on the porch and nutting up, Southside, keep locked
Where the G's knock niggaz out for fucking up, we tuck 'em up
Me and C-O and Tall Cann you can't fuck wid us
We something rough you niggaz be punking up we got pumps and stuff
All up in the trunk and stuff we be waiting for attack
Get me spraying on ya pack and now you laying on ya back
You ain't paying all ya rap taxes institute of malpractice
I put ya raps in a casket you half plastic
Patty mealed ass nigga put ya raps in the thrashbin
Ya clashing wid the Burbank titan fasten ya seatbelts
I'm bout to make ya meat melt
That beer breath spitting meat chunks at ya wig punk
I fear less rather hear less, you niggaz is tryna pay less
I make ya days less tripping on the famous tryna get famous
Nigga please

[Tall Cann]
Ain't nobody fucking wit me, this side of the city
Northside gangsta ride turn you liars to sissies
You ain't banging shit so miss me wid ya bullshit comment
You know me, I worship drama that was a curse from my momma
So if you wanna bring it here boy
Northgate in El camino I'm right here boy
All day long all night strong we be running the North
And I can have niggaz from your hood, run on ya porch
Ya little cowards keep the gun in ya shorts
We keep the blunts and the ports to blaze up
After ya spirit raise up you still
think you can rap you need to give them days up
It's gonna cost you ya cap taking cheap shots at us
So cuz toss me the strap and put these streets on hush
Because they full of wack niggaz and they speak too much
And now we can't have that because we G too much
So I'ma end it on this fact nigga'll bleed too much
Ya keep talking