Live At the BBQ - Styles of Beyond

Ap ain’t merciful

Shoot up your convertible

Lay your body flat while your soul goes vertical

Versatile, impossible to pigeon hole

Gettin’doe, spittin’flows

From complex text to pimpin’hoes

That’s why your girlfriend feel me man

It’s alarmin’how charmin’I really am

Got a glock that’ll Rock like a Band

So this gun in my right hand is named Steely Dan

Steal the show, steal hoes, steal your fans

Steal my flow?

We’ll hang you from ceiling fans

Your little hoe tryin’to front like she’s hard to get off?

Tell that finger lickin’chicken bring the barbecue sauce

Ayo I stay clean Rake Doe, lay low with a full clip

My yayo fiends on payroll get smacked over bullshit

Motive, notice I never fall victim to no one

The truth that’ll fuck tracks in the booth with a Trojan

Respect due cause whole crew, is professionals

Quickly show a nigga what a knife in the chest will do

While y’all front, still spittin’the same

The only time y’all kill somethin’is on a video game

Cause any beef we’re gonna ride at all cost

Have you shot in your cars

Have you sittin'+Sideways+ like Paul Wall

Chopped and Screwed up, cause you niggas do suck

That’s why your girls chained to our sticks like nunchucks

You got a death wish I’m the Fresh Prince of tech clips

You gotta respect it

The west died I came in

Resurrected the west side like Game did

You ain’t shit

I came with a gang that’s brain dead

And walk around talkin’to they selves like Rain Man

My game plan is thick

Your dames on my dick

All my girlfriends got name tags that all say «Bitch»

Y’all can’t really spit

Rip tracks, I spit crack

Click chrome and finish off cliques like six packs

S.O.B./be the first sucker to mouth off

I call Celph up tell him to bring me the cow prod

And that’s all

(AND THAT’S ALL!)

Don’t ask me for nothin'

Ask me for somethin'

Mega-Ton bombs strapped to my chest

Don’t even ask if I’m buggin'

Warlord from the dark star

All my dogs bark paw

Talk hard and get hit by a parked car

Swimmin’where the sharks are

Yes I’m one guy

That won’t speak when I’m holdin’heat cause I’m gun shy

You’re damn right that I’m a studio gangster

Bring the Mac-11 to your mix down and shoot the place up

Your bitch get face fucked

Bustin’on her Clairol

Deep throatin’so far she coughin’up hairballs

Disregard the law

Fuck a gun ban

I got a group of musicians with AKs that’s my gun band

See it’s like that y’all (that y’all)

That y’all (that y’all)

And that’s all!

You know me homie I’m a tax a million cats

Till they can’t rap

Get the cash that feelin''em yeah

They call him Tak with a glass of Guinness

To rock city blocks

And bringin''em +Back To The Grill+ again

The Demi-G.O.D.s

We take 'em a little higher

Than California bud when we smoke trees

Tryin’to walk is like Calypso with broke knees

With half of your body slain with your brain in your goatee

Oww, that’s on S.O.B.

Plus I carry a knife cause I’m a sick dope fiend

Got 'em panickin', damn it cause the bandit has spoken

Yeah, it don’t take much to bust a cantaloupe open

Bitch