Verse 1:
|
Speedin' on the highway, gangsta lean
|
One-Sixteen, full steam, kna meen?
|
bitches on my jock 'cause my flow is hot
|
spot the watch I got filled with rocks you can see from a block
|
when the light hit, strictly fishscale, fuck that light shit
|
menage out the garage, double pipe shit
|
lookin' at her like "Aiyo Ma, I know you likes this"
|
capital S, capital H, capital Y, capital N, capital E
|
spit three at his V he survived miraculously
|
killed the n***a who was layin' in the passengers seat
|
flow sick, no shit, roll six
|
head crack, walk the streets with my chain out for frontin'
|
blow your brains out for nothin'
|
fuck ya'll n****s walkin' 'round like ya'll sayin' somethin'
|
what ya'll know about G4's?
|
SL's with the automatic door
|
let the automatic pour
|
and kill you n****s who act hard
|
flee to the Hamps, Atlantic Ocean be my backyard.
|
|
Chorus -
|
Boys will be Boys, Bad Boys, Bad Boys
|
Boys will be Boys, Bad Boys, Bad Boys
|
Boys will be Boys, Bad Boys, Bad Boys
|
Boys will be Boys, Bad Boys, Bad Boys
|
|
Verse 2:
|
Flow like what, princess cut, yellow rocks gleam
|
respect the team
|
hands tied, close your eyes, picture me rollin'
|
gangsta literally holdin'
|
stacks and Macs
|
I got the greyest jewerly n***a, need the plaques to match
|
to feed my Moms and my team sit back relax
|
fuckin' with this rap, still I pimp smack
|
fuck a bitch gap, show me where them bricks at
|
pants saggin', spazzin'
|
Gucci, with the double G pattern
|
n***a fuck around, put your stomach in your lap'n
|
Seven-thirty, stay dirty, respect the game
|
got this shit locked like John T. McLain
|
get up in that ass like Pamela Lee
|
shot Clyde, fucked Bonnie, Thelma, and Louise
|
fuck a dream
|
I got a Seventeen shot magazine that materialize everything to cream.
|
|
Chorus 4x
|
|
Verse 3:
|
Gangsta life, fuck a block format
|
put it down for my n****s who hold Macs
|
sell bricks and catch cases, reload, spray, shoot
|
half them them state troops
|
and thats word to Jesus`
|
fracture bones, crack ya dome
|
we don't flash the chrome, we blast ya gone
|
nevertheless, sell half wet, measure the rest
|
sniff a little bit so I can mix pleasure with death
|
for my bitches princess cuts and emerald sets
|
American express, uh, whip it out
|
fuck a price bitch, just pick it out
|
want a little CLK? deep dish it out?
|
on your car phone headed to your bitches house
|
Pirahda gucci things, Cartier doobie pins
|
you could live, but bet I Indian give
|
fuck your friend
|
take your shit back and give her the gems
|
ya'll wear the same size, tell the same lies
|
got the same cunt, bitch don't front
|
it's the best, who wan' know?
|
718 to 90210.
|
|
Chorus 4x
|
|
-----------------
|
Boys Will Be Boys
|
Shyne |