No Get Bacc

[ VERSE 1: Young Prod ] If any crew wanna mad-dog, if you look it's on I got this .44 chrome spittin at your dome Comin from the shoulders, droppin muthafuckas like boulders Rollin with my chip Motorola Blazer all fucked but I ain't walkin Head feelin light cause my stomach startin to talkin As I roll by hoes yellin out: "Star!" But I yell back: "Bitch, look at the car!" You seen me in a video, don't think that I hustle Stressin so bad, make me wanna jack Russell I dropped outta high school askin where the money at 'Man, it's in the rap game' - now it ain't no get back 'Homie fuck that, where y'all from, loc, you bangin? I thought the Cartel were some 87 gangsters' Look homie, I'm a player and I ain't got time Two steps back, buck you dead in your eye, eye, eye... [ Chorus: Young Prod ] If you trip off your mouth and my strap's in my lap It ain't no get-back, prepare for your casket Nutshell Nazi, the S.C.C Persist to get pissed on, get yo buster ass on [ VERSE 2: Prode'je ] Should I bomb? Yo, let's commence to kill a Pussy-ass niggas talkin bout they pullin triggers We got the back streets sowed up Live on luck will leave your ass fucked, nigga, hold up You pickanannies be talkin plenty bullshit But you ain't shit when it's time to get with Real niggas from the S.C I peel your cap off Nigga, now turn that muthafuckin rap off 5'8" with a big stick Muthafuckas try to run but I'm comin at that ass quick I'm so bad I kick my own ass You disrespect me and I be gettin wreck just like a plane crash Dash, I have your ass burnin like some hash Ash, you see a mash, then you hear the blast Ask the Prod what that be like I tell you gangster, now you know it's all to the g right [ Chorus ] [ VERSE 3: Havikk the Rhime Son ] It's ninety-muthafuckin-six, gees finna ride and slide Cartel Gang down to hoo-bang in a five Niggas gettin twisted but I don't give a fuck about a buster Cartel till I die, muthafucka A nigga dressed thuggish, postin with the heater Decapitate yo dome with this nine millimeter 'draulics on amp, the ass is on call Hit the second switch, bitch, post my d's on the wall Chuck T's posted on the curb 'yac in my palm and I'm chokin off that herb I swerve back to the 9 block, pager goin wicked Check my phone book for a bitch who wanna kick it Diarrhea-at-the-mouth muthafuckas better ease up S.C.G.'s regulatin fools g's up Rhime Son, nigga, on deck puttin it down for the set, loc Mobbin murder deep with my kinfolk [ Chorus (repeated till end) ]