Snitches & Bitches - 415

Nigga what’s up

What?

What’s yo muthafuckin' problem?

— Better than sayin' jack

They let me go

Yo muthafucka, I don’t wanna hear that weak shit

— Nigga what?

Fuck that, I don’t wanna hear that weak shit

You old rat-infested goverment informant cheese-eatin' ass son of a bitch!

You better have your vest on 'cause you 'bout to come up short

«No!»

(*shots*)

Caught a brother one day gettin' out of a cop car

I know there’s more to come, but the few that have so far

Talked to police about more than a court date

They’re victims of a certain situation I’ll illustrate

Day-to-day pigeons poppin' all that junk

About the dollars they makin', a half a ki in the trunk

Mobile phone in his lap and ten cars in the shop

Sellin' more than coke, and side orders of hop

But there’s a catch to that, the boy wasn’t prepared

He caught a case on a humbug, now he’s scared

No more hangin' with the fellas drinkin' gin and juice

He’s in a situation now where he can’t be loose

Everybody wears jailies, and sleeps on bunks

And it’s easy to tell, the men from the punks

So the ones who rhyme but run they mouths like bitches

Once they hit the bullpen, they turn snitches

That’s why I don’t fuck with these old soft ass niggas

Out here runnin' round here like they 187 artists

Killers don’t talk!

And these hoes supposed to be high roller ass niggas?

Ain’t that a bitch!

Everytime I look around instead of stickin' to the rules of the game

They let circus asses makin' decisions for themselves

Yeah, it’s hard times, Young JED

But it goes a little somethin' like this:

The game is hard as wood, the macks don’t splinter

But yet and still trick-ass niggas wanna enter

And with ballot in hand, they rush to vote

To elect themselves into this game of dope

But yo bro, the situation is real

Don’t slip in this game, on a banana peel

There’s a lot of brothers runnin' around pluckin' collars

Stuck up due to the fact they’ve got dollars

Most of them punks, gettin' marked by young bitches

Put in the county, and the punks turn snitches

Given a alias, now he’s set free

Or offered his job to be an f-e-d

I don’t understand how a brother could turn

His cheek on another, homie, when will ya learn?

The talkin' to cops, makes it ten times worse

But they keep on talkin', verse after verse

Why do brothers wanna hop in this game?

Runnin' around, they don’t know the main frame

And when they’re caught, they get to talkin' like Polly

But they don’t want a cracker, just bumpin' 'em, snitchin'

You know what I mean?

Now it’s the high rollers and not the fiends

Take off the Rolex, and park all the cars

You just a punk, yeah, you know who you are

Why did you get in the game, if you wasn’t equipped?

So what you’re havin' money and your car is whipped?

Keep talkin' to police, then you’re gonna get ???

'Cause you’se a punk in a city of players, you’se a stupid muthafucka

Double R.

What’s up with these old broke, bus ticket-type ass bitches out here, huh?

Always tryin' to get with a nigga with some mail.

They need to get a muthafuckin' j-o-b.

Quit blowin' up these niggas' beepers

Old stankin' ass muthafuckin' bitches.

Here’s somethin' I wanna tell all you hoes:

Fuck you!

Man, these hoes in the Town ain’t shit

Can’t fuck with a nigga, unless he’s rich

Sportin' gold ones, man, tryin' to make that mail

Hoe mopin' and hopin' that you would treat her to nails

Hoe, I can’t treat, nah, nah, it’s '89

Back in '87, when I was stuck to the grind

Money flowin' like a river but hoe, I’m not trickin'

My Zapco’s hittin' so hard, the light’s clippin'

Girls on the bus stop, all of them coppin' a plea

To get with the man who slangs d

Whether ridin' a 'Stang, or a rag top Beamer

The h-o's want to get, with who’s cleaner

So boys from the O, all of those who make riches

What do we do?

Dog bitches

Knockin' and sockin', is a everyday thing

The turfs and the side show, is where the boys hang

Hoe on jock for a brother with a fade

Some zeniths, some vogues and the boy’s got it made

As she makes the block, with a baby in a stroller

Her only destination: to find a high roller

But hoe get real, run and go get a job

'Cause if I ever come to snatch ya, I be ridin' a mob

(*horn honked*)

Who is that?

It’s me, come on.

Ah-ah, I didn’t recognize you in that shit.

Where your Mustang?

Ain’t that about a bitch?

These hoes out here think niggas gon' taxi 'em around on gold ones?

Nah-nah, it’s 1990, y’all hoes better get woke to these muthafuckin' old schools

Bitch, jump in the bucket.

The door don’t open.

Double R, fuck that hoe!

Tell her make like the muthafuckin' Duke boys and crawl through the

muthafuckin' window

(Snitches) (snitches)

(Bitches) (bitches)