Ruger Rell & Writer

[Intro: Hell Rell] Yea, yea, yea (Uh huh) Yea, yea, yea Oh we done doubled the trouble this time nigga (Yes sir) Dipset fully loaded! (Let's blast off) [Chorus: Hell Rell] Ruger Rell, Writer of Writers Will gun a nigga down, plus the fighter of fighters Ya'll just get weaker, we tighter and tighter There's work to be put in, you fired, we hired [Verse 1: Hell Rell] Now what it do, It's Hell Rell, I'm the hustler's champ I got a semi automatic that'll knock off your camp So don't push me, I'm a hotheaded son of a gun This gangsta that I am, I did not wanna become What these streets do, man they shaped me and mold me To a cold blooded killer that'll blaze at ya homies This bitch get cute, I smack the whore and leave her there I'm stuntastic, I crash the Porsche and leave it there And get another Boxter, I just caught dread for 5 pounds of shit Bout to get another Rasta You hoppin in the Honda, I'm getting on the chopper Talkin on my phone, conducting business like a Mobster You put your order in, your yay gon come soon Sorry ass niggas, they day gon come soon (And what day is that) Oh that's the day that your momma cry These two Rugers pop and sing you a lullaby Leave you laid out, get ghost in them vans And on the real, me and Writer just want your advance And your budget got spent in the club last week And you probly didn't know who I was the last week But this track you gon remember me, avoid the penitentiary Yea this Hell Rell, I'm the gangsta of the century nigga! [Chorus: Hell Rell] Ruger Rell, Writer of Writers Will gun a nigga down, plus the fighter of fighters (Uh huh, yea) Ya'll just get weaker, we tighter and tighter (J.R. Writer in the building, let's do it) There's work to be put in, you fired, we hired [Verse 2: J.R. Writer:] I'm out to solve it with skills, I give the slaughters the chills I make 'em nauseous or I'll, skip from a Porsche Deville Before I caught me a deal, I was caught up in krills Like fuck the billboards, I'm a hit the border for bills So I'm layin in the shade, playin with them K's Cat front, I'll lay some paper on his waves Keep playin like you brave, and nah, I don't know you But I'll have some dirt on you, when I lay you in the grave I'm past hot, ask not, I'll leave your cat popped Runnin shit, a hundred clips go up in your black socks Let a cat plot, hat pop, blast it Put money in the casket, call that the stash box Gotta laugh Ock, you could never fuck with me One eighty even though the dash say a buck sixty Pardon me I'm grown, ARAH on some chrome Flyin past, sittin in the Charger like a phone, Holmes I'm just a supplier, whippin that fire Black body, black rims, chrome lip on the tire You're not as sick as this flow, you guys are sick of this pro J.R. Writer, A.K.A. the flyest nigga you know, Ho [Chorus: Hell Rell] Ruger Rell, Writer of Writers Will gun a nigga down, plus the fighter of fighters Ya'll just get weaker, we tighter and tighter There's work to be put in, you fired, we hired