(feat. Pooh Man, Seagram, Yukmouth)



[Verse 1: Seagram]



Uh.

Sweatin in the kitchen

cookin 3 chickens

I'm Chef Boyardee

when it comes to a key

43 OZ's is what I see

everytime fa sho

latex glove so it don't get into my pores

hardcore to the marrow

4-5 barrell

Yo my dinero

is bein stacked an packed away for a rainy day

I slang caine

mayne through the Bay

Hey!

A-K's is packed on the regular

funk my competitors

and the predators

who like to plot my riches and my misses

but she packs a duce-duce Gucchi really misses

suspicious

niggas didn't flip the pain

you couldn't watch Scarface to get this game

or the Godfather

or New Jack City

I'm from the crew with no pity

the 60's like Ripley's

'Believe It Or Not' I'm top notch

sippin on scotch on rocks

and it won't stop

I stay down an ready for my fedi

no matter the cost

the Chevy I floss

see Eddie's the boss

I get crossed by the pigs

I can smell the sweet aroma

you didn't know 6-9 was in no cahoots

try to warn ya

about fuckin wit my paper route

I got major clout

throughout

the south

the north

the west and the east

it's the Seag struttin nigga

gettin more than a piece of the pie

the sky's the limit

it's the authentic 6-9 apostile

makin niggas seek the gospal.



[Chorus: Yukmouth, Dru Down]



Nigga.

What would you do if you ain't got your strap?

Would you get yo ass jacked?

[Like this, like that?]

Nigga.

What would you do if you ain't got your strap?

Would you give up yo scratch?

[Blap, blap!]

Ha.

What would you do if you ain't got your strap?

Would you get yo ass slapped?

[Like this, like that?]

Bitch.

What would you do if you ain't got your strap?

Would you nut up and scrap?

[Blap, blap!]



[Verse 2: Yukmouth]



I'm goin out like Tupac

shootin 2 cops in the ass crack

when ever the task jack the turf I be the first to blast back

make that ass "BACDAFUCUP" like Onyx

I puff up chronic, that make ya vomit like Ginatonic

(you know me!)

Gold D's on trophies every summer

can't see me

might wonder if I'm ballin on the unda

I never be givin a fuck, but quick to get my grind on (trick)

the nigga who slips is who I'm quick to pull my 9 on

Sheeit!

Now break it down, down break it

can't make it, so I take his grip and leave him pistol whipped

stripped butt naked

I cooks up bricks of A-1 Yola

the soldier til it's ova

slappin bitches wit the Motorola

I know a busta, you know a busta too

juss a few on my shit list to get licked

you mutha fucka you

shoulda known the game was deep now

around the East Bound

we'll buck you up and fuck you up to see you six feet deep now.



[Verse 3: Dru Down]



I'm juss an East Side Soldier

born at Kaiser

ever since then I have been on the rise up

came out the diaper from a switch to a big stick

I'm in the mix

and yes I'm like steadily foldin the grip bitch

Whoo!

I want you to know that I'm Down

I'm Down in the Town

I'm drawin down

I'm Dru Down

On who now?

And niggas wantin to do who?

But niggas couldn't do me if they wanted to

I'm out to pull you

Whoo!

Who?

You.

Who?

You

you'se an owl mutha fucka now what fool?

Another sucka put in the gutta

came the wrong way

I accidentaly had the A-K

and sprayed

I shot

he shot

hella shocked

he thought it was a plot

(He didn't know I got stripes on my side)

Why not?

Lame to the game

no skills that's real

no glory in the East Side Soldier story.



[Verse 4: Pooh Man]



Masked murderer

psychopathic villian

my dick is on hard when your guts start spillin

put my glock

caulk

your body drop

let off 7 shots

and my lead is hot

tore through your vest

ate through your flesh

all 7 in your chest and your laid to rest

nigga don't you know, ain't no room for guessin

class is in session meet Mr. Smith & Wesson

watch the bodies all drop

when they hit your block

it's when you know when I reach for my chop

no need for drama

cry for mama

I'ma

hit you wit this lazer beam sight and take you life

after the lead melts through you cranium

entering you mind like titanium

Yeah!

Your punk ass potna shoulda told ya

you done fucked up

an ran into an East Side Soldier.



[Chorus x2]



[Dru Down outro]



Blap! Blap! Blap! Blap! Blap!

Hahahahahaha!

International Blunt Funk biatch.

Rilla than real!