(First Degree):

Shit done changed, the strip got bigger

To make my ends I got the wheel and the trigger

I get my swerve on with the 80 P liquor

The liquor bring out the nigga in this nigga

Got me huntin' with my musket, barred down with substance

Bringin' my ruckus to the rival fuckas in rival clusters

I'm still givin' birth to perfect joints, I keep it steady

Still mixin' up with skeet sours, I like them heavy

Heavy'll put a little bass in your voice

Yamps choice, no Rolls Royce but I keep it moist

I keep it saucy, ya bossy bitch talkin' that costly shit

Bossy bitch think she too flossy to trip

I'm First muthafuckin' Degree, not your average, 

I'll have your boulevard hoppin'

Poppin' off when a baller pack a package of suckin'

Fuck you fuckin' up duck, stuck like Chuck, now, now getcha dome in the trunk

As we donut, I dump, I seen too many moons, took the minds of too many bufoons

Fools with no clues that love to watch my aura glisten, 

they still don't listen

I...I got pot that's hot to trot, can't stop, won't stop

I got Lynch Hung in my backseat sniffin' for cops

I receipts of tweed purchase, medical purpose, write off at text time

So ya'll go home, light the smoke, it's relax time



Chorus:

Now I apologize for smoke on my mind

I been workin' hard and I got to unwind

About the J.O.A. stayin' in my brain

But I'm seconds away from goin' insane

Now I need to lift away



(Lynch):

Now you niggas know I come sick like a lunatic

Man, they must be high cuz they really don't know who they fuckin' with

I used to have them all bombed out

Drink Alize wine, then rhyme and smoke tweeds till we dropped out

I got the chop out, no doubt, 

cuz if it ain't about rappin', gunplay's gon' happen

Cuz I'm tappin' at yo' window, off that Indo, more sacs than Santana

Better check your antenna on your radio or your stereo or your video

Cuz I'm not that pretty, but in the bedroom I'm critical

You got your chance, now use

Hit you with the Loaded album, coutesty of Siccmade Music

Evidently you got something against me

Don't you tempt me, minty smells of the 20 sac of Indo, Killafornia's best

Player haters die a slow death, slow death



CHORUS



(Ice-T):

I don't wear no Chuck Taylors and don't sag my pants

But I still lift the switch and make this 64 dance

More niggas with me now than I had in the hood

And they down for whatever and that's all to the good

Wish you would test my technique and heart, nigga what?

Nigga, fuck that, bitch nigga what? Baby, duck!

What you wanna do now, ya bleedin' from the floor

Nigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no more

That's how I'm coming 9-6, bitch, rich and mad

Hoes in bikinis, rag Lambroginis, overseer runnin' mad streets

Creepers with beepers and stash spots for glocks

And under car Escobar style, buck wild, you been there, you know the terrain

Niggas go insane, tryin' to get the green

I'm just surviving on the streets with my peeps

And I'm livin' for the day I catch a punk on the creep, yeah



CHORUS