On My Brief Case - Brotha Lynch Hung, Phonk Beta, Zigg Zagg

Now on my briefcase was some crumbled weed

A pack of Saravegas and a 24 ounce O. E

Might as well skeez these couple of hoes

In my 69 Malibu sitting on Trues and Vogues

For days you might have seen me in my cinnamon cut chrome shoes

With some you-can't-see-me tint on the windows indo syndrome

Smokin' it up, not givin' a mutherfucking fizuck

Sold the cut, my ex-ho said «that nigga’s sqattin' what?»

Got at the homie Carl, and got me some of that bomb

Had me so fucking high I got off like Vietnam

Dead bodies and bitches clits simmerin' in the crockpot

And the shit don’t stop until my motherfucking chronic or high drop

It’s just that insane type of thing, let the MAC rain.

Guts in the drain

Siccmade niggas, they make the world go round

And if you fuck with Siccmade Music you can get your ass gunned down

(Phonk Beta):

I had a homie who stayed up in Alaska (what he used to do?)

Used to transfer flights over Nebraska

And flew me back about a ounce of that Alaska indica weed

And out of the whole zip possessed one seed

Had it wrapped real tight all up in cellophane

Can’t have the K-9 dogs smell it, man

If only you saw what I was seein', the buds was almost pure white, but not green

Had to be one of those one-hitter quitter dome splitters

It’s the type a tweed that makes you wanna fuck your babysitter

I roll a fattie, when I roll this fattie

Niggas’ll be all 'noid wondering why they lookin at me

Bitches have the nerve to say my shit ain’t bomb

But it’ll have your lungs burning, like you’re puffing on napalm

(Zagg):

I wipe that sweat up off my forehead, I’m off the kush

Lay back and take a comfortable hit, with a Q-tip, it’s splitting my lips

And my dome stays split off toothpicks

I hit a lick with a quickness, dumping dead bodies in ditches

Appreciate the fact, so come correct, cause I could be vicious

Suspicious, comin' up on recognition I’m creepin' up from behind

With a 12 gauge, non-fiction, I’m all prepared to go for mine

So step in line, a couple of hits, dome split, I be lit on a for real basis

With a machete I’ll slice your neck just like them Jason cases

Murder traces, but I ain’t pinned cause there’s no evidence

Slight scent of that purple kush plant, and I can almost sense the essence

What’s the lesson?

Get tested, don’t come if you can’t come correct

It’s that West Coast shit for life.

I don’t know what you expected

I’m reckless, nevertheless I’m a pimp in a bulletproof vest

Putting it down, pound and pound, you need to take a step down

.50 caliber rounds, I’m running through your whole town

Buckin' em down like Doom set on deathmatch with the BFG-9000 cartoon