(feat. Z-Ro, Lil' Flex, Buddah Man)



[Hook:]

I've got to stack my paper daily, (on my grind)

Keeping ways this crooked game can pay me, (on my mind)

On the block all day bout to drive me crazy, (but I got to shine)

All day I gotta get my hustle on, because I wanna ball not get my struggle on



[Z-Ro:]

Gotta get up and get it, cause I gotta have some'ing

If I'm broke I'ma play Spondalay, cause I'ma grab some'ing

I'm a soldier, and I ain't gon stop swinging till I fold ya

I gotta pay ready bills, plus I need some doja

From doing shows, to kicking in do's for feddy

Prefer a glock, cause it ain't heavy

I'm in the Dodge not the Cheve, cause I'm ready to ride tonight

Roll with tensions, I don't need nobody eyes tonight

Because a snitch, is somebody that you dig a ditch for

When you do it alone, is when you get rich brah

Even when I'm on the block, I got my spot tied down 

Any short stopping, they know I'm ready to ride down

Cause I need my money, ain't no working for free

If it ain't 25 hundred, don't even bull with me

Cause I ain't coming, unless I can get what I'm worth

Cause I be feeling like, I'm the rawest MC on this earth



[Hook]



[T-Pop:]

I like to see the sunshine, and just roll on 84's

Let these boppers know the deal, they know that Southside gon hold

Gon hold, fa sho pockets gon fold

Screwed Up Click my family, and we done kicked in the do'

Z-Ro, King of the Ghetto stacking his feddy

Copping these dollar signs, so you busters ain't ready

We cocked up in a Cheve, plus we pushing the clock

Benz on Lorenzos, sitting low in the drop

I won't stop, because I'm too far gone

Corleone I'm a rider, till you come back home

Taking fo's to the dome, Screwzoo sit on your throne

We still jamming your songs, thanking the Lord you was born

Because without you, it wouldn't be no rapping

The only thing I could see, is my pistols a click-clacking

Click-clacking bad actor, nine packer

Reflecting this beam, for you petty ass jackers



[Hook]



[Lil' Flex:]

We pop Cristal, in the memory of

And write songs, for the people we remember we love

Remember we thugs, this is for the Crips and the Bloods

Nobody cries when we die, only swishas and jugs

Ounces of bud, put up your mug it's going down

Pop the trunk and show surround, the Dirty 3rd is where I'm found

One hundred percent realer, of the 7-90 taxing niggaz

By mouth phones, I be faxing niggaz

From the streets, you better ask them niggaz

I got more toys in the trunk, than you action figures

They don't come around, because we clap too much

And I don't bar with lil' boys, cause they act too much

If you think about getting clips, and jacking us

Then you better think again, cause the gats'll bust

Like Biggie Smalls say, I'm notorious

The way that we ball is so glorious, glorious



[Hook]



[Buddah Man:]

For change I spit game, you better believe

I'm letting my K sneeze, till you cease to breathe

Got a hunger for cheese, I'm all about my scratch

On fire like a match, it's best you back-back

When this hammer track back, don't mug this nigga wrong

Hollow tip bullets, put plugs in niggaz domes

I ain't stopping till you gone, I ain't taking a loss

I'm a game spitter, certified Mafia boss

Go-getters with one hitters, that sting like a wasp

Necks be iced out, no matter the cost

A verbal Holocaust, I spit's the real

For niggaz that don't know, this the deal

Stepped out entered the do', with thug appeal

Boys saying, this nigga must be a thug for real

Show nothing but skills, and I'm ready to throw down

It go down, I'm grooving now kicking the do' down

No time to slow down, I'm tearing this hoe down

But peel your niggaz off, and I'm taking some mo' down

This a Southside showdown, recognize the name

Lyrics like hot flame, game recognize game stack paper



[Hook]