Backwards (Shatasha): It’s the thuggish ruggish Bone. . .
Eazy-E: Eternal. Eternal. Eternal. . .
St. Clair, niggas [niggas, niggas].
[Laughing. Scream. Thunder.]
Backwards (Bizzy): Gotta give it on up to the glock glock, pop pop, better drop before them buckshot blow. The Bone in me never no ho, so no creepin’ up outta the ziplock. So, Sin, sip gin, and Lil’ Mo Heart run up, nut up, and flipped in, then slipped in the clip then, mistakin’ they bloody victims. ‘Member to test nuts. . .
Buck! Buck! Buck! Buck!
Right back at your muthafuckin’ ass comes those real true thugs staight of the Double Glock, puttin’ it down for the muthafuckin’ Land, takin’ no shorts, no losses, puttin’ it on these jealous, bitch-made, playa hatin’ ass niggas. You better tell me what’s real, bitch. Takin’ over shit in the nine five, I bring to you the one and only, Bone thugs-n-harmony.
Nigga, this St. Clair [this St. Clair, this St. Clair].
Execution double nine style, steadily fillin’ them bodies underground.
Nigga be all about that llello bankroll. Bet I make that money, man, then roll, put it on the dough, but I beat up hoes, and I peel ’em and bang. Gotta get them demons off me, creepin’ up softly, seepin’ up through my soul, and sleepin’ ain’t good til dawn. When I’m alone, and I’m dozin’, bet I watch the door, then I won’t be slippin’, sleepin’. Lovin’ the thugs I bails with, but a trail of twelve gauge shells, blood’ll be spilled, one-eighty-seven and a two-eleven. Twelve gauge and an AK-47 spray. Lil’ Ripsta killa now, put ’em off in a grave–they lay with a slug stuck all up in ya. When I roll with realer niggas, pop, pop. Drop to the sound, hit the ground, then I’m up to kill ya.
Them St. Clair thugs, we love when they pumpin’ them slugs, now what, see the blood from the scum, when I dug them enemies deep in the mud. They drugged. I roll with them trues. Snooze, you lose, end up on the alley floor fucked up. What’s up with them shoes? Ooh, they new. So we runnin’ off with my dog’s Chucks. Bust a left at the block. Hey, what do ya know? Oh, no, the po-po–they follow. Copper gotta see the nigga layin’ but can’t escape, but nigga, remember my motto: me no surrender. Gotta get away, hit the fence with the quickness, hit the other side, and I swang to the ride, rollin’ through the cut, hit ninety-five. Peel, bailin’ for safety we make it and chill, gotta make a mill, better not get caught for real. Nigga, drop that bill, or I pop my steel. Ain’t no competition, don’t fuck with my click, and so listen you bitches that trippin’ so get when we stickin’ then lickin’ them pockets. So drop that dollar, man. Gotta holler, bang. Fuckin’ with a thug nigga smokin’ blunts. Nigga,
don’t stiff on the weed, smoke it all, ’cause, nigga, you know when our pockets get (?) I’m a run and get a sack, and come choke, choke, choke.
Now you’re fuckin’ with these thuggish killas, creepin’ up outta the Land, and they ready to ride, gettin’ high off thai. My niggas in the Land got glocks for days on the nine-nine. But I kill ’em all, dog. Bet Layzie don’t fall with the twelve gauge eruption on niggas, so what now? Come, nigga, get buck, pow, and not only that, get shut the fuck down. And I’m talkin’ about niggas that wanna contend with them thugstas. Some niggas done fucked up, never no playa haters in the click’s allowed, and we never no bustas. Never catch a nigga sleep, hear the buckshots rang where the thugs in Cleveland dwell. Daily collectin’ me mill, and I’ll meet you in hell if all else fails. Oh, well.
Execution double nine style,
steadily sendin’ that body underground.
Lyric Da Introduction – Bone Thugs-N-Harmony