We Pop (feat. Ol' Dirty Bastard & CCF Division) Lyrics

We pop, we brawl, gettin' money til the day we fallDouble barrel shotgun (blaow), pop son
I told nigga, just not run
I saw him on 205th in Fordham
This dog was frozen, so my high heat thawed him (Wu!)
I blown ya, you need a blood donor
My bitch ghetto, like Florida and Laronia (girl)
Laundry mat hoes, who want clothes?
I flow checks, one followed by six o's (six o's)
I got hoes, in codes, in different areas
Four ton whips that's sittin' on interiors
The bass shake in the club like it's earthquakin'
I cock arm, pass the bomb, like Troy Aikman (Aikman)
Play the basement like Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson
You miserable, you get kidnapped by Kathy Bason
Thrown to the dungeon, for your spongin'
Of Wu Killa Bee, what's your total malfunction?We pop, we brawl, get money til the day we fall (yeah)
My glock (my glock), my four (my four)
throw shots through your bedroom door (bedroom door)

From the P's, to the morgue, cop Louie all the way to my drawers (New York)
We pop (pop), we brawl (brawl), get money til the way we fallCome on, let's cut the crap, money
I've been gettin' this rap money
Crack money, stack money, I'm tryin' to get that Shaq money
That Mike Tyson, Michael Jordan, Michael Jack' money
Five hundred mill' and better, dog, yeah, now that's money
Act funny, ya'll make me laugh (haha)
Frontin' like you tough, you softer than a baby's ass
These lazy ass labels -- fuck you! Pay me cash
My crazy path promoted me into a Mercedes classWe pop, we brawl, get money til the day we fall (yeah)
My glock (my glock), my four (my four)
throw shots through your bedroom door (bedroom door)
From the P's, to the morgue, cop Louie all the way to my drawers (New York)
We pop (pop), we brawl (brawl), get money til the way we fallYeah, all ya'll can see is the back of my jersey
Blowin' in the wind, goin' back to Jersey
Off to Brooklyn, left you back in Jersey
I was doin' a buck 90 like a throwback jersey
Shame on a Nigga, take it back to Dirty
Run, game on a nigga, I'll be back in thirty
Seconds, got the world's greatest record
And that money I'mma spend it like your greatest record
This Division, all the ladies respect it
Disrespect it and the eighty'll check it
It ain't hard to see how ya'll ignorin' the steel
Niggas that I clap, lookin' for me still
Til they look like they came out of George Foreman grill
Thoughts are stolen on Free, must be on them crills
Plus my, team gon' be holdin' like forty mill'
Thoughts are rollin' on E., must be on those pillsWe pop, we brawl, get money til the day we fall (yeah)
My glock (my glock), my four (my four)
throw shots through your bedroom door (bedroom door)
From the P's, to the morgue, cop Louie all the way to my drawers (New York)
We pop (pop), we brawl (brawl), get money til the way we fall
Songwriters
DORSEY WESLEY, ROBERT F. DIGGS, RUSSELL T. JONES, FREDERICK WILSON CUFFIE, S. CUFFIEPublished by
Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., Universal Music Publishing Group Song Discussions is protected by U.S. Patent 9401941. Other patents pending.