Cig: See, what I need you to do right now is...

Get up, get up, get up, get up. Nah fuck that, sit down



[Cig:]

See rappers get religious when the Uzi draws

No tours, in the hooptie, pullin' groupie whores

Puffin the OOWEE, she's like "Who's he?" sure

When this kids weed's stickier then movie floors

See Cig in the hood? Then he's flippin' a bone

Cigs next in line dog, it was written in stone

Blaze up a bitch? Nah, I'm hittin' 'em homes

I'll put a gun in your ass, have you really sittin' on chrome

No dubs, no slugs, hurry, gettin' hot

We ain't sweatin' these cops, cause we ain't gettin' popped

But that's why Cig's havin' nightmares of the block

Cause the last guy to have a dream wound up gettin' shot

Plot, but wasn't so hard when I seen they ass

Funny on their record talkin' bout the Nina blast, smash

I'm in the hood smokin' the greener grass

My bags fat, they similar to Trina ass, so!



[Chorus:]

Put a finger in the sky if you came to get high!

You ain't gotta ask why, we brought out own supply

Put a drink in the air if you just don't care!

G Town, yeah, you could push it if you dare

Bust your gun now, bust your gun now, bust your gun now, bust your gun, no!

We ain't scared, we ain't scared, we aint! Somebody let 'em know!



[Cig:]

This kid's ill, I'm never forcin' it son

Skills a question? that's a rhetorical one

Cause these lyrics of mine are metaphorical guns

This kid's next in line, it's historical, done

I get's money, so just pardon the bars

Cause this kid's closer to the margin of stars

So face me faggot if you're startin' to spar

I'll jump you, and I ain't talkin' 'bout startin' your car

You callin' her wifey? I'm callin' her headwops

She stops callin' you, as soon as your bread stop

Lead pops, and know that the crew keeps heaters

That'll lift the soul (sole) out of you like cheap sneakers

On point with the Heat, you could call me Wade

Box cutter in my pants, and I ain't talkin' 'bout a blade

I'm twisted off of the trees and the Miller Light

2 types of MC's, and Cigs the iller type, so!



[Chorus]



[Cig:]

These small time hustler's be hatin' the throne

They need to get their weight up like Raven Scimone

Stoned, smashin' bitches you be datin' to bone

And with so much ice on you'd think I'm skatin' it home

And if you don't give a fuck, come and see what's up

I'mma smack a hater up, somebody let em know!



And if you don't give a fuck, come and see what's up

I'mma smack a hater up, somebody let em know!

And you ain't gotta ask if I'm bendin' them whores

She thought I sold paint the way I see Benjamin's more (Moore)

Raw, you talkin' hard, but you ain't harsh fellow

Cause deep down you're soft as a fuckin' marsh mellow

The Cig stay blazin' the weapon she stroke

You claim you got Profits, but I reckon you broke

I don't need to shoot you, but reckon I toke

I'll have my mans murk you, call it second hand smoke, RAH!



[Chorus x2]