Lone Star

[Hook] Down South, sittin' low Subs, subs, in my trunk Midwest, pimpin' hoes, twenty-six's on the truck Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho Parking lot pimpin' with the candy painted doors topped Now I'm still flippin' in the 'Caddy sittin' low I told her: Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho [Verse 1: Jon Connor] Nigga, I was down South (down South) Sittin' up in the House of Blues, chilling I catch these hoes, I don't catch feelings Yep, real nigga in the building Midwest game so cold, ya'll should have knew that Born and raised in the mitten Thick motherfucker, I knew I had to get it She had three kids, I paid for the sitter Her girl came with her; part-time hater, full-time stripper She had an ex-man, and the ho still bitter Thought I was gonna kiss ass for the ass, how the fuck you figure? No, wrong; I ain't gotta do all that My nigga just came with the liquor Shots of Ciroc get your girls on the floor Now she got her ass on the floor right with her Everybody drinkin', everybody faded She ask is it good for the night, you the greatest This how it supposed to go down now, ain't it? Square-ass niggas got the game all tainted Spoiling hoes that don't want a thing Wife the hoes that don't want your ring She run the game, she could coach the team That's why I handle mine how it's supposed to be [Hook] [Verse 2: GLC] Please don't confuse me with these fucking coos (fucking coos) Sippin'-ass lames like it's something cool (something cool) You know I'm pullin' up, in something smooth (something smooth) G'd the fuck up, first day of school (ism) (first day of school) Aw, shit, your bitch is so promiscuous (damn) (promiscuous) She a runner, you should see the shit she did (damn) (shit she did) I ain't lay up with her, I just hit and slid (never) (hit and slid) I can't do that shit, I'm a pimp, you dig? (I'm a pimp, you dig?) Midwest mackin', as it manifest (manifest) Cathedral-fied ism, nothing less (nothing less) Big breasts feel so good all on my chest (on my chest) I'm an addict for this pussy, yes I must confess [Hook] Down South, sittin' low Subs, subs, in my trunk Midwest, pimpin' hoes, twenty-six's on the truck Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho Parking lot pimpin' with the candy painted doors topped Now I'm still flippin' in the 'Caddy sittin' low I told her: Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho Put it on the, put it on the, put it on the floor, ho [Verse 3: Bun B] Yeah, you know I'm a lone star, and my homie's that Lone Star Where them gangstas is known for having they own 'Dro, and they own bar Baddest bitches that's ballin' out with they own crib, and they own car And when it come down to Texas, man there ain't too many places that's on par Candy painted slab, rollin' up and down the ave See them jazzy, yellow bras, with that big old ass to grab We cuttin' corners, poppin' trunks, and we swangin', bustin' Sweets down As we burn them Swishers up, and burn these [?] streets down Walking tall in my neighborhood, and I'm known for puttin' my feet down Frontin' on a trill nigga, man guaranteed you gon' catch a beat-down Your girl wanna swallow my meat down, and I'm inclined to let her Trill O.G. about the cheddar, and can't no nigga do it any better Hold up, man [Hook] [Outro: GLC] Know what I'm talking 'bout? The motherfuckin' confession of a motherfuckin' true bonafide, mackin' blessing Know what I'm talking 'bout? Rotating with my nigga Jon Connor, and we always seem to amaze and astonish Know what I'm talking 'bout? Motherfuckin' Ism is the motherfuckin' streets, rotating with my true playa partner by the name of Bun B Know what I'm talking 'bout? Cathedral to the congregation Know what I'm talking 'bout? No more strangulation, raise your motherfuckin' pimping up and join this motherfuckin' Ism nation Divorce the bullshit, marry the motherfuckin' Ism Church!