(feat. Journalist, Major Figgas)



[mixed and scratched sample]

P-H-I-L-L-Y, North, West, Southwest South side

P-H-I-L-L-Y, Give it to them bitches and niggas who stay fly



[Verse 1 - Beanie]

You know my flavor

Low linen double s gators

Jeans ripped on purpose

Moure written in cursive

Tool shirt with the belt to match

Four pound send shots through your Celtics cap

You know me, B. Sigel with that lethal spit

Fuck around and get your people hit

Tek 22 see through clip

Niggas know who I creep through with

Major niggas, you know, Major Figgas

I roll them corners and drop four birds with four words

Niggas get the flippin

Before niggas get the missin

I'm known for that duct tape, rope and pistol whippin

Back door, dope and coke from when boat ship in

It ain't no tellin what I do for a trunk of crack

Told y'all dudes that I'm quick to trunk a cat

You know my tools, either the pump or the mac

Catch me at your kids school playin Uncle Mac



[Verse 2 - Journ]

Yo what you think I couldn't shine on you cause your chain glistenin?

When they said the name Journalist you wasn't listenin

Change the condition of the Range that you sittin in

Pull out the pistol in, shoot out your Michelins

Leave you in your boy Rover with a poor odor

Journ, slim bulldozer with the broad shoulders

Week into your tour I'ma call your broad over

Before she hit the salon, bustin the whore rollers

You tryin to play the fast role

Dawg you an ass hole

Your chick gave me your cock, cigar and your bath robe

Test the circle, beat you till your purple

Then have my man search you from your hat to your workboots

Fam fuck you and the cats that co signed you

Catch you while you on your Ducotti and clothesline you

Tryin to cop a spot like the one they shot Tony in

Journalist for Doo Wop, the true Mitronian



[Bridge - Dutch]

P-H-I-L-L-Y

Why should we tell y'all why?

Where why and how we ride?

P-H-I-L-L-Y



[Verse 3 - Gillie]

A'yo rap cancer, flow sick I flow iller

My goal is to move more units than Thriller

Its G-D-K slash God damn killer

slash Gillie Da Kid

Nigga can I live?

Guns keep, never get rid

Did a minor bid

Only for one week

A Thug let his gun speak

Real player, never fall in love with a freak

My raps is like crack, I distribute to the street

O's in the form of flows, China Whyte

You say I'm okay, your chick think I'm dynamite

She love my flow, she love my clothes

When it come to them, I'm like Snoop "I don't love them hoes"

See my niggas cop cars, watch flooded with stones

Knowin that my voice'll probly sell a million alone

Nigga bout robbin Gillie? Un uh, pullin the chrome

Aimin straight at your face then I'm killin you holmes



[Verse 4 - Dutch]

MF it don't get no realer than that

See the jails got my niggas I'm takin em back

Serve em out for any smoker who got taste for the crack

I'm takin it all, whether its a safe or a pack

I'm layin you down, whether its a eight or a mac

See I love to bust guns, but I hated the sound

and I muzzled em up dawg just to quiet em down

Where my West coast niggas at? Shots to the ground

Where my East coast niggas at? Safes's and pounds

I got, pimp in my walk nigga, pimp in my talk

Dawg I bust you niggas first before my players fall

I'm already called it quits, don't want it in no more

Put the gun to my head, blaow say fuck it all

You can't get no women player, they don't want a war

You can't sell no cane dawg, you too damn soft

Me I sell it all player, from the hard to soft

You just a boss player, tryin'a roll with boss



[Bridge]



[Verse 5 - Bump]

Seems like you don't know how much life is left

Till I revolve six in your chest

start at your vest

Send you into cardiac arrest

chokin, weezin

What gave you the idea that Bump wasn't squeezin

Bump ain't packin? Bump ain't holdin?

Bump won't put it in your face leave it swolen?

Do it for the paper, yeah players hate my hustle

Young nigga, chrome 38 I hate to tussle

Six hundred platinum skates from the muscle

Keep work on the strip, shit I live to the hustle

Step my game up to a bird from a bundle

Football shit, cook wrong nigga fumble

Blocks on the shoes, twelve on the wheel

Cris till I spit in the club with the steel

I hope you niggas thinkin Bump J won't kill

You be dead on arrival

Nigga no survival