February - Whateva Da Weatha - Ramson Badbonez, Gadget, Mystro

I’ve got my winter coat, hoodie hat and gloves on

Waiting at the bus stop

Thinkin' its not blatant as I bust shots

Ruff, what?!

Crouching on the stair case

Shottin' robbin' bare face, mockeries

Nobody comes to their aid

Present day!

February she’s here, so we’sees the leap year

Hide away that secret stash and keep clear

We fear!

Nothing, not a damn thing

Pulling out like ham strings

Makes you wanna flip out, click clack

Bang bang!

Pressure got my blood pumping

And running and drug juggling

Which I am currently gun smuggling

Fake scams!

Credit cards and cashbacks

Gameplan he’s name-brand

Selling g’s and getting keys for free bags

Hard food!

Deep in from a tall block

Freezing my cock and balls off

Seein' three crack fiends, packed in one call box

Weed cakes!

Put in on the big scales

Bag it up and make sales

Get back on your hustle, grizzle

Whatever!

Trouble making younger lads

Guns in the plastic bags

And back packs for fun cutting slags

Dog flats!

Currency or coke racks

You might get your throat slashed

Watch your back the feds have got your phone tapped

Reckless!

A bundle of teenagers

Under police surveillance

We don’t give a fuck

We’re smotherin' the pavement

Think fast!

I was rarely in class

Can’t you see that shit’s hard

So I am on my hustle, grizzle

Whatever!

We’re born in the b’s so I’m never gonna stop

The euros, dollars, p’s, I’m gonna get a lot

From sun-up to sundown round through to whenever

No resting whatever the weather

We’re born in the b’s so I’m never gonna stop

The euros, dollars, p’s, I’m gonna get a lot

From sun-up to sundown round through to whenever

No resting whatever the weather, yeah

In these unfriendly streets

Munching on some jelly beans

Hungry as a he’ll ever be, he’s looking for that

Go steal!

Till it comes he won’t chill

A crook becoming so ill

He’s looking at some road kill

Like «maybe I should

Grab that!»

Lost everything he had

Stashed, he left that in his backpack

And kept it in his nan’s flat

His bredren must have

Nabbed that!

He worked like a lab rat

The first sign of that cat

He swears he’s gonna flip out, click clack

Bang bang!

He’s troubled 'n' juggled and in drug smuggling

But someone done him in

Now he’s stuck in the slums, suffering

Without rules!

The scoundrel, who used to have a house full

But now new reduced to lacking mouthfuls

He’s doubtful

He’ll get his cash!

Back to where his two-faced brethren’s at

Spending then forgetting that he soon may regret the flash

He didn’t run

That pistol on the victim’s gonna sing a song

But 'til it’s on he’ll get back on his hustle, drizzle, whatever

Racist feds, fucked out kids

out chicks stunk like shit