Hang Out And Hustle

The C R U D D Y the C L I C K

It's texture pure terror a street professor aggressor scale and measure

clever compressor stretching salary stacks be running blocks as a

factory

structure capture the raw product I manufacture fracture critic chatter

nigga catcher as I blast a cop matter capsule shatter scatter midnight

disasters clips I rather gather then flip for what I'm after now and

forever money makes things better at a regular gets me jewelry, bitches,

bankcards, cars and competitors proposed threats wreck necks and puff ya

puzzled see trouble muzzles when I hang and hustle.

Booda Bop, Boom, Bam, Bink, Bick Bow Bookow, Ratatat, Klack Klick, Klick

Kow, Klick Kow put brains with muscle. Hear a crew of guys utilize they

skills. Bang out hang out slang out work and hustle. Flip techniques

over

boogie bangin' beats. A street fleet with Moet, dank and freaks in

twenty separate suite I'm servin' dope lyrics holding weight, just like

Chris Webber a warrior from Golden State, and I conjure up raps I bet

you

don't know any they be hitting like that brick that smacked Reginald

Denny.

Collects cash n' checks on a jet to meet the next client as I arrive at

L.A.X.

I'm up early so I catch my phlegm spit step then stash the stem 10 clips

in ten shit bottles are sectioned in wit a clip thick a block stocked

wit

protection see X again tools ta fry and unified like Mexicans but if

shit

is slow in comin' a fiend that's one thing thats when you see twenty

niggas running to one fiend.

Yo black tops I got that yellow high for hours buy from me now or next

time I swear I'll sell you flour I got dreams of getting a 98 or a Caddy

living fatty plus I got a little man calling me daddy my lady and little

man they need me and I need 'em I gotta see em and please 'em but first

of

all clothe & feed 'em so we can see freedom even if I jeopardize my time

and life while I'm in this game I'm making sure that mine is right from

the beginning to the end its dividend to the end so I like to hang out

and

hustle wit my friends.

Well it's Friday night and the weekend's here. All that partying shit

must take a seat to the rear.

Instead of fuckin' wit those phony ghetto chicks I'd rather be movin' my

clips with my homies on the bricks my fingers stay hard. My hands stay

full of ash. My fingenails stay dirty that's from burying my stash.

Fiends are bummin', money's comin' to say the least, but I'm out there

flippin' clips feeding the belly of the beast. It's first of the month

money's comin all day all night and too many going for theirs I'm

cuttin'

sales off with my bike. Now with my niggaz in session we freestyle

rhyme.

Reminiscing moving that shit 20's of clips at a time.