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)





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





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!





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





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





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