Cuddies Say "Yee" (Da US Open) - Mac Dre

I’m a Crestland, mad man, Country Club psycho

With assault rifle and hatred for the 5-O

Early death is normal, so we smoke Perry Como

Make the minutes move slo-mo

Wil' out for now, ‘cause when it end, we really don’t know

Youngsters have King Kong on they back before they grow old

And in my turf, the streets so cold

Put this on this choppa that I hold

Fuck with my kinfolks and we’ll be tagging your toe

Man, this a rough life, I tuck gun, tuck knife

I bust back, bust once, bust twice

This 40 thang, will tear off your bumper

It’s my only gang, I call my thumper

Nigga, I’ll jump ya, all by myself

With no help, if you die, oh well

No love felt, people, I’m a menace

It’s Macassi on the mic, we playin' tennis

Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»

Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene

Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-15's

Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»

Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene

Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-1-Feens

I’m in the club VIP, with me thing

Feelin' the DJ rhythm wide swing

I’m searching, looking for a guinea pig

Splat any wig, strapped with the mini Sig

On Remy big, high-tech cyber

Dre MacGyver, getaway driver

Always tighter than the po-po or the feds

I’m ridin' somethin' hi-po with ported heads

Your boy with dreads and take the guys on one

Frozen goods?

Boy, I’m gon' run

Dumb outlaw, on a crooked path

Tryna look at cash, look at wood on the dash

Look at screens, listen to the satellites

Big appetite, nigga ain’t actin' right

I’m ill, so real you smell it

MacEnroe, tell ‘em how to spell it

Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»

Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene

Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-15's

Squares disappear when cuddies holla «Yee!»

Breezies don’t scream, paramedics clean the scene

Slay the lames with SK’s and AR-1-Feens

Now, nigga, bounce, break out

Run a route, scatter when you see my scowl

Followed by the fully K imported from Moscow

Since a creeper crawled, we did fugazis foul

Hardest nigga test the line, he gots to blast me now

Three C beast, North Pole of V-Town

And all my niggas make these bitches run like greyhounds

We have no funk, guerilla warfare style

Move on you without a sound and all of a sudden, crack your crown

Doctors say smoke and poison make you senile

Especially in them Backwoods, but fuck it, blaze the pound

And did I mention, we do the Rodney King, Reginald Denny

Turn your little function to a stomp convention