Lyrics

Man, I'ma run my mouth and get your corporate account Bring my benz out in the middle of a drought I blow lye like its "God Bless Buddha" It's sort of like the feelin' runnin' with a known shooter Baby I'ma spit it to the limit, run into the abyss You know its god number 7 on your top ten list Its kamikaze, look into the eyes of a pisces And Las Vegas talkin' shit is where you might find me Fillmo' down from the nose to the toes Get your cell phone you can picture every pose Picture all the clothes, picture all the hoes Picture the perfection when your money pile grows You gotta crocodile style, I sport gators They still might bite, so fresh with the flavor Got Khan? Fillmore's number one sign Steak, potatoes, garlic bread and some prawns! (YEEEAAH) San Francisco baby Fillmo' niggas try'na bring back the 80's, YEEEAAH (Yeah money is the motto And run around town like its Grand Theft Auto, Chicka-kahnn) Wally on my hip, good weed in my mouth Gangsta niggas in the whip, YEEEAAH (Your not dealin with clowns When you try to kick hop, watch your body shut down) Yeah, nigga I'ma mothafuckin' fool Trees for breakfast, eat brunch by noon 24 Davins, only showin the lip The rest of the women, same color as the whip Jump out and crack a nigga shit wide open Jump back in the nickle with the barrel still smokin Fillmore nigga, yeah bitch break bread I don't want no pussy, I don't want no head But you can get a sack of that purple stuff Some gin and a bag of that Hillary Duff I'ma pimp, trapped in a gangsta's body I'm on dope and gonna fuck around and hurt somebody On tuesday and thursday the ghost pull up Then everybody runs, they'll fuck you up I'ma shady ass nigga, man I ain't gon' lie I just wanna sell dope, smoke weed and get high, you BITCH (YEEEAAH) San Francisco baby Fillmo' niggas try'na bring back the 80's, YEEEAAH (Yeah money is the motto And run around town like its Grand Theft Auto, Chicka-kahnn) Wally on my hip, good weed in my mouth Gangsta niggas in the whip, YEEEAAH (Your not dealin with clowns When you try to kick hop, watch your body shut down) You might mistake me for Doug E. Fresh, the way I sport ballies With my Slick Rick talk and my Slick Rick walk I wear rings like the planet called Saturn The money's movin' baby then your body is the pattern You know I hide out like it's witness protection Some people start to stare like a model car collection You know it's like: twenty G's in a Jordan briefcase My hood came up off the word "freebase" Man the soul of a grammy runs through my body structure My bottom ho cries, 'cause I never say I love her It's a cold word, thats why I p-p-p-party My lawyer is a sneaky motherfucker, very naughty With hot lies, I hit Popeye's for hot fries A real rap cat, talkin' 'til the sun rise What's your astrology, and your biography I talk a little bit to get you to follow me I'm like the quality, you like the quanity Fillmore born and ain't no apology San Francisco baby Fillmo' niggas try'na bring back the 80's, YEEEAAH Wally on my hip, good weed in my mouth Gangsta niggas in the whip, YEEEAAH
Writer(s): Keith Omar Murray, Trevor Smith, Erick S. Sermon, Tyrone Gregory Fyffe, Reggie Noble, Jamal Phillips Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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