Killer from the West - Conejo

Twelve o’clock midnight was the time that I arose

One thing on my mind, I wanted to get loco

On a misión is why you can’t find me

I’m rolling with a treno, ese me and my crimey

That’s Shady, my perro, ese watch my back

Gonna get this feria, gonna break some backs

Cause that’s the only way that I knew

One more strike, I get caught and I’m through

Soy Conejo, Tiny L-O-C-O-S

Hoover Park gangster, 2−11, P-H-S

And something wicked, comes this way

As Veneno my carnal, ese crawls out his grave

With vengeance and the look of a killer

And the look in his eyes, like the devil in disguise

Vatos wanna run and vatos wanna hide

They’re dropping in the calles, enemigas gotta die

These vatos wanna run, these vatos wanna hide

Dropping in the calles, enemigas gotta die

Before I really knew it, I was riding with the rest

My varrio on my back and my clica on my chest

The familia’s ahuitada on the way that we turned out

I brung it on myself, it’s not my jefa’s fault

The dimensions that I enter, can’t be explained

So all this loquera is the way that I maintain

The war in the calles will never fucking cease

Now I steer the county homeboys that are now rest in peace

Conejo, Los Harpy’s, loco yo controlo

I snatched that microphone, y yo me paro solo

Cause who I gotta fear, when my varrio’s got my back

With a erre full of carga, I’m feeling really smacked

I heard the gunshots from blocks away

As we made it to the spot, where the homeboy laid

There was yellow tape ese, around the scene

The homeboy got killed, not again, not a dream

I felt the presence, of someone from the West

It’s a work of a killer, it’s a killer from the West

So let me assume and let me decide

Who of my victims be the first one to die

Vatos wanna run and vatos wanna hide

Dropping enemigas, enemigas gotta die

Vatos wanna run and vatos wanna hide

They’re dropping in the calles, enemigas gotta die

Sabes que?

Fuck them vatos

Aqui para los Harpy’s

That’s right, pasa la .38 de volada

So I can deal with them

Conejo fucking Trix, insane like Cocaine

In the City of Angels, there ain’t no Angels

Puro vato loco, crazy gangbangers

Al rato, that’s right