[Verse 1: Brotha Lynch Hung]
I might catch you with your pants down
Razor blade your Adam's apple
Oh it is a funky circumstance now cause it is 187
Got away with the loot
You was the homie that you know me
I had to shoot
'Cause you was the only one that knew
I ain't built for no 25 to life
See I'm a little n***a thinking big (big)
Making money of these gigs
If you try to stop that
On my momma you could get did
Yo momma looking at the casket like it is a baby in the crib
N***a you said you never did no dirt
Feelings get hurt, murder expert
With almost too much Loot
If you there, you gotta die too
Too much shit going around
N***as be telling and n***as be talking and walking
Solo I come
No radio, pager, walkie talkie, communication
I'm loving my murder sensation